When she packed up to leave, she knew that she was saying goodbye to something important, which was not that bad, in a way, because it meant that at least you had said hello to it to begin with.

I don't care if I'm a fish, I still want a bicycle.

After a childhood of hungering to be an adult, my hunger had passed. Unexpected fates had begun to catch my notice. These middle-aged women seemed very tired to me, as if hope had been wrung out of them and replaced with a deathly, walking sort of sleep.

There seemed nothing so true as a yellow tree.

The affectionate farce I make of him ignores the ways I feel his lack of love for me. But we are managing.

I wondered about the half-life of regret.

Plots are for dead people.