The sun was like a huge 50-cent piece that someone had poured kerosene on and then had lit with a match, and said, "Here, hold this while I go get a newspaper," and put the coin in my hand, but never came back.

Sometimes life is merely a matter of coffee and whatever intimacy a cup of coffee affords.

Im haunted a little this evening by feelings that have no vocabulary and events that should be explained in dimensions of lint rather than words. Ive been examining half-scraps of my childhood. They are pieces of distant life that have no form or meaning. They are things that just happened like lint.

If you are thinking about something that happened a long time ago: Somebody asked you a question and you did not know the answer. That is my name.

The bees in my stomach are dead and getting used to it.

...what makes you older is when your bones, muscles and blood wear out, when the heart sinks into oblivion and all the houses you ever lived in are gone and people are not really certain that your civilization ever existed.

I'll tell you about it because I am here and you are distant.