If only she could be so oblivious again, to feel such love without knowing it, mistaking it for laughter.

And then there's the sickness I feel from looking at legs I can't touch, or at lips that don't smile at me. Or hips that don't reach for me. And hearts that don't beat for me.

I say, 'Don't lose your heart, Rube.' And very clearly, without moving, my brother answers me. He says, 'I'm not tryin' to lose it, Cam. I'm tryin' to find it.

Have you ever noticed that idiots have a lot of friends? It's just an observation.

When he moves, a streetlight stabs him, and the words flow out like blood.

Please, trust me, I most definitely can be cheerful. I can be amiable. Agreeable. Affable. And that's only the A's. Just don't ask me to be nice. Nice has nothing to do with me.

I wanted to ask her how the same thing could be so ugly and so glorious, and its words and stories so damning and brilliant.