It was something. Out of nowhere, I didn’t give a shit about anything for like a month. Like nothing. 

I was plagued by remorse, but my remorse seemed inspired by insignificant dumb things—things not really worthy of bona fide remorse.

Anny moved through the night, drinking gin. When she turned south, the wind was a wolf. There was something hard under her right foot, and she realized it was the pavement; her shoe had worn through.

These false-fronted buildings lived inside him, in a place deeper than consciousness.

I’m tired, I have student debt like we all do, I keep getting promoted because people keep on quitting and so now I’m middle management.

It was toward the end of the week when I received the telephone call.

I don’t miss childhood, but I do feel a pang now and then for its sensory overload, the feeling of it, when the woods were more immediate, and the air, and the trees, and more real somehow.

Ira wakes up floating in the muck with a taste in his mouth like rotten strawberries. 

Confronted by the tetanic twitching of his individuality under the smooth skin of teamwork, I saw all the more clearly what was different about him, and I knew I loved him because I liked him better than the others.

People got out in strange ways. No stranger, I suppose, than the ways they got in.