I wish to cry. Yet, I laugh, and my lipstick leaves a red stain like a bloody crescent moon on top of the beer can

If I was going to fall, I would hang on to my small comforts, at least, for as long as I possibly could.

The sun gives you ulcers, the wind gives you T.B. Once you were beautiful.

I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks or a champion college footballer suddenly confronted by Wall Street and a business suit, his days of glory shrunk to a little gold cup on his mantel with a date engraved on it like the date on a tombstone.

Secretly, in studies and attics and schoolrooms all over America, people must be writing.

I keep wanting to crawl back into the womb.

Well, I know now. I know a little more how much a simple thing like a snowfall can mean to a person