I was afraid she’d look at me as if I were a perfect stranger who had nothing to do with her and never would.

He feels like he’ll never desire anything again, except sleep, and to be rid of this smell.

On the mattress, my eyes fixed on the bulb, I waited and waited and no one came. 

Keeping a journal is a perilous thing, and we should be warned against it as children.

She would like to believe the appreciation of beauty is never a waste. But this does not an essay write.

Theoretically we love the forced communions of urban life. Practically we avoid them.

The first set had ended things. The second was just to let the air in.

Among the many rules on the grief bus, the most sacred, perhaps, is this: never ask for information not freely offered.

He will live on for decades—eating, talking, laughing, fucking—while she will cease to exist in just a few weeks.

The building was frustrating. Was that because the person who lived in it was?