I thought of the future, and spoke of the past.

In California everyone goes to a therapist, is a therapist, or is a therapist going to a therapist.

Some prisons don't allow guitar because the strings can be detached and used as weapons.

The way his plump hand clutched at her hip seemed somehow improper; not morally, aesthetically.

[Y]outh is hardly human: it can't be, for the young never believe they will die...especially would they never believe that death comes, and often, in forms other than the natural one.

There’s got to be something wrong with us. To do what we did.

And since gin to artifice bears the same relation as tears to mascara, her attractions at once dissembled.