Dreams, you know, are what you wake up from.

I am too nervous to eat pie.

Woke up this morning with a terrific urge to lie in bed all day and read.

She serves me a piece of it a few minutes out of the oven. A little steam rises from the slits on top. Sugar and spice - cinnamon - burned into the crust. But she's wearing these dark glasses in the kitchen at ten o'clock in the morning - everything nice - as she watches me break off a piece, bring it to my mouth, and blow on it. My daughter's kitchen, in winter. I fork the pie in and tell myself to stay out of it. She says she loves him. No way could it be worse.

That morning she pours Teacher's over my belly and licks it off. That afternoon she tries to jump out the window.

What good are insights? They only make things worse.

Don’t complain, don’t explain.