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No parent has yet been born who can save a child from childhood.

We were young and lived wild lives in the delightful city of our sojourn.

Her sentiments maudlin, malaise dripped like a fever from her pores.

I try to imagine him wanting only a Toblerone bar for his birthday.

These adventures taught me that writers are flawed human beings.

Those under us are not dead. They are dancers. We are the music.

He pushed aside a photograph of a man with a knife stuck in his eye.

He cut down on beer and moved into the hotel that had my name.

When I think on it, I can’t believe I’m going to kill two people over weed.

She wonders if he will be all right. She assumes he has four-wheel drive.

He didn’t mind, he insisted, that he loved her more than she loved him.

Somebody would be a lot happier if she were more like her mother.

Say what you will, a human being has the right to their own body.

My mother and I remained apart. My father came late to the party.

I was dusty, my ponytail all askew and the tips of my fingers ran red.

She asked, “What’s the weirdest thing you can do with your body?”

She began to see the word, or traces of it, wherever she went.

He came into town with his big red pen and began revising us.

What’s the harm? Will you fight even the healing powers of love?

I waited and waited, rethinking first sentences in my sleep.

My books, I can hardly read them, they make so much sense.

Bees kill wasps by gathering around and tightening in the middle.

The time a man kissed my hand when we met. Though he’s been dead for decades now, I still feel the kiss.

Euclid stands in front of his lover’s door, open to the last hours of light.

His mother wasn’t there to meet him at his stop. She never was.

They are glorious pumpkin-skinned messengers. I hate them.

And that girls came to his house all the time, cheap girls from the docks.

Love speaks in silence, on behalf of lovers too tired for words.

She looks down the street for Scott’s truck. He’s late but so is she.