I guess that’s the beauty of books. When they finish they don’t really finish.

They were glued down, every last one of them. A packet of souls. Was it fate?Misfortune?Is that what glued them down like that?Of course not.Let's not be stupid.It probably had more to do with the hurled bombs, thrown down by humans hiding in the clouds.

She was a Jew feeder without a question in the world on that man's first night in Molching. She was an arm reacher, deep into a mattress, to deliver a sketchbook to a teenage girl. (84.25)

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.

The injury of words. Yes, the brutality of words.

Like most misery, it started with apparent happiness.

Mistakes, mistakes, it's all I seem capable of at times.