They were French, they were Jews, and they were you.

I had many boxing matches with my brother in the backyard when we were younger, and I guess while other people abhor boxing for its brutality, I also have to admire anyone who climbs into the ring to face up to what could be the ultimate defeat.

I want to talk to him. I want to ask him about that girl and if he loved her and still misses her. Nothing, however, exits my mouth. How well do we really let ourselves know each other? There's a long quietness until I finally break it open. It reminds me of someone breaking bread and handing it out. In my case, I hand out a question to my friend.

The last time I saw her was red. The sky was like soup, boiling and stirring. In some places, it was burned. There were black crumbs, and pepper, streaked across the redness.

The song was born on her breathe and died at her lips.

I'd been in love with her for years. I never left this suburban town. I didn't go to university. I went to Audrey.

A small but noteworthy note. I've seen so many young men over the years who think they're running at other young men. They are not. They are running at me.