There are stories all around you; stories about lies and aeroplanes and veils and sleet and viruses and hippopotami. Do not write the stories yet; just listen to them. »

She loves shiny, colored things. Her glasses are pink. Her bikini is green. The gun in her hand is sky blue. »

My piano is a white noise machine. I play it as loud and as fast as I can for as long as I can. One time I played for almost five days straight without anything to eat. And I didn’t sleep. Or, I think... »

“I didn't make him leave,” Jake says. “And neither did you.” »

I hurried out, saying he was truly insane if he thought I'd pay him for that.  And he called after me, amused: "It's OK, on the house." »

I'm not sure how I can work it in, him being a plumber and all, but that’s the work of a novelist - to work out those details so there are no leaks. »

I’m addicted to the little slash marks, the looping, crossing, cutting, slanted marks. »

Where it may be sunny and mild, let an hour pass and all of a whimper, dark clouds drift over the mountain tops to blanket the valley in an orange grey blackness. »

Your scent cures homesickness and scurvy, your scent makes summer month festival gypsies fall in love. »

and I the I and scribbles--- unreadable midnight. »

In the elbow room I flap the jacks. I flap the jacks with Andy Warhol. There are gods to coddle, gods to slouch, later. “Memory is a type of god,” I tell Andy. He gives me a look. A look of black light, pretty ugly,... »

Today it’s the gas station guy. He was a way down the list but he’s easy-pickings. »

Soft, baked chunks of apple warm her body as she swallows the pastry. She focuses on a mother sitting on a bench across from her, reading a paperback while she absently rubs her pregnant belly. »

The hat is not a metaphor, in case you were wondering. »