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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.

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

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.

The graffiti suggests the most essential story of New Haven.

A finger on the bell, a quick sprint on light feet, and then stifled laughter.

I hang there, upside down, watching Bronwyn, her face beatific.

Even then (Colin remembers now), it felt like the end of something.

He had seduced them with his sincerity for truth-seeking.

Insomnia! There is a sickly romance to the affliction—initially.

Isn’t Nightshade sad, people said; isn’t he pathetic; isn’t he hideous.

She had not anticipated that the nightstands would be an issue.

Your jumps are numbered. It is better to be a bird without altitude.

Here’s the world, sweetheart. One word as small & large as a father.

I’ll leave a trail of crumbs as I descend into god knows where.

Standing there in our small shadows, we discuss the ways of the dead.

“Why do we always fight,” he finally said, his voice quiet, resigned.

It’s cruel to watch my edges crystallize and reflect light.

This is all there is. Nothing else. No heaven and no hell, okay?

The women wanted signs of regret, but she was straight shouldered.