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I believe you get to see a sunset once. Death, well, I’ve lost count.

My wife had time to form a thought: I have killed my daughter.

In all the faded retellings of that night, there’s a lot he left out.

Cruelty is cruelty and you don’t ask why, you just hit first and hit hard.

The future of the book began to appear among imaginary woods.

He would sneak into my room, we would have sex, he would sneak out.

They’re still there since they never grew old. The story is never finished.

It is not surprising that her solo marathon did not turn out as planned.

My shadow is cast by the paleness of a certain star.

My hands only knew. The painkillers in our mothers’ cabinets.

Susan Ann so wants to be that girl—daring, free, divinely sensual.

I sensed that a name defined who I was and would be in the future.

We didn’t think of ourselves as anything so grand as sex workers.

A friend of my father’s once told me, “You’ll never be a writer.”

My grandmother read one of my early stories and warned—don’t force your muse.

Love is the difference between a full life and an empty one.

I don’t own a smartphone and never will. I’ve never sent a text.

Art doesn’t conform to a capitalist’s ratio of productivity to time.

I like to think of love as something that one should keep feeding, like a fire.

In real life, my favorite character, so to speak, is Ruth Bader Ginsburg.

The dope worked, though he felt ashamed using it, smoked in secret.

Toe over toe we went, arms held out like tightrope walkers.

The phone rang at an awkward hour, too late at night to be good news.

The notes must be crying inside me falling from their proper octaves.

I promised to return, but secretly I dreamed of staying in America.

My mother was dead. Almost a month she was dead, killed by me.

She knew Jim would be a terrible husband. They’d murder each other.

If he was going to pick me up, the least he could do was look at me.