It's so easy not to know. I just didn't know. I read all these books, they tasted sooo good. Then I wrote one. Then I wrote another. Now I have to write a query letter, I have to write a fingerprint. I'm not your god. I have to write your eyes when you wake up. I have to keep you from closing them after a long day. It's easier not to know. I just don't know. The soft sweet success of the final product.
The purchases that make you a better you.
The sound of two hundred year old glass breaking.
So I'll just curl up and tell you the truth.
Half way through trimming my beard my beard trimmer nearly gave out, I dreamt of buying a new one with half a beard.
Today is not that day.
I bought a boat, and I don't know the nautical term for inexperience, but I won't let it sink me.
I was not incredibly impressed by George Saunders collection Tenth of December.
It's easier to read when it's coming right for you.
You argued a healthy fear of death. You placated the short hand of greeting cards. Your tell all was out of breath. You didn’t have to lose, you just had to place. There is far too much empathy in this room, right now. After a mile of walking, a chapter of reading, two tablespoons lime juice, two of agave and two shots tequila. You left the punctuation, like the language, in the fumbling tongues of it’s creators. The best books broke the typewriters, broke the laptops, broke the keyboards. Mozart never raised a hand to a woman but on some nights he went through two pianos easy. I want it broken.
"They were all in their early thirties. An age at which it is sometimes hard to admit that what you are living is your life."
-- Alice Munro