... Death has begun to grip even me with its own arms, its own skeletal wrists bejeweled with anger and contempt.
Who said that only animals are animated?
The nights around here are like good poetry. The phrases are brief and sparkling – never lengthier than the stretch of my headlights through the unwinding roads.
I’m writing in black ink today, which is psychologically more daunting than blue.
Moving from where we're at, always to where we're going, and never really returning to anywhere we've been before.
My wife told me all of this after I’d carried my daughter inside.