The Real Beauty In Life Is That

So Much Of Her Time Spent Like This: Dreaming Up Things To Say And Never Quite Saying Them.

That's What Sons Do: Write To Their Mothers About Recall, Tell Themselves About The Past Until They Come To Realize That They Are The Past.

Good Days, They Come Around The Oddest Corners.

He Looks Like The Sort Of Man Who Can't Afford To Leave, And Doesn't Want To Stay, And So He Is Doing Both At Once.

The City Was Bigger Than Its Buildings, Bigger Than Its Inhabitants Too. It Had Its Own Nuances. It Accepted Whatever Came Its Way, The Crime And The Violence And The Little Shocks Of Good That Crawled Out From Underneath The Everyday.