I love road trips. You get into this Zen rhythm; throw sense of time out the window.

Even a Menno sheltered from the world knows not to stick her tongue into the mouth of a boy who owns an Air Supply record. You might stick your tongue into the mouth of a boy who owned some Emerson, Lake and Palmer, but you would not date him on a regular basis, or openly.

It's raining questions around here. A person could drown in them.

But love, like a mushroom high compared with the buzz from cheap weed, outlasts grief.

It’s hard to grieve in a town where everything that happens is God’s will. It’s hard to know what to do with your emptiness when you’re not supposed to have emptiness.

David Bergen is a master of taut, spare prose that's both erotic and hypnotic. . . .

I had a thought, on the way home from the rock field, that the things we don't know about a person are the things that make them human, and it made me feel sad to think that, but sad in that reassuring way that some sadness has, a sadness that says welcome home in twelve different languages.