We can all of us be hurt, and no one is exclusively safe from worry and sadness.

It is true, I thought. I am living a life.

Where is your mother, Charlie asked. Dead. I’m sorry to hear that Thank you. But she was always dead.

The creak of bed springs suffering under the weight of a restless man is as lonely a sound as I know.

I will admit he is unusual, but that is perhaps the closest I could come to complimenting him.

...but I could not sleep without proper covering and spent the rest of the night rewriting lost arguments from my past, altering history so that I emerged victorious.

Returning his pen to its holder, he told us, 'I will have him gutted with that scythe. I will hang him by his own intestines.' At this piece of dramatic exposition, I could not hep but roll my eyes. A length of intestines would not carry the weight of a child, much less a full grown man.