Editing is just ongoing. I don't count drafts, or know what would fully constitute a draft. But I try to fix as I go. And there's always more to fix.

She was afraid, and the afraid, she realized, sought opportunities for bravery in love.

You chose love like a belief, a faith, a place, a box for one's heart to knock against like a spook in the house.

You are unhappy because you believe in such a thing as happy.

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 often think that at the center of me is a voice that at last did split, a house in my heart so invaded with other people and their speech, friends I believed I was devoted to, people whose lives I can simply guess at now, that it gives me the impression I am simply a collection of them, that they all existed for themselves, but had inadvertently formed me, then vanished. But, what: Should I have been expected to create my own self, out of nothing, out of thin, thin air and alone?

A funny line can never exist on its own. It needs to be surrounded by mood and circumstances.