"Big brawl involving 31 breaks out at Waffle House."

"More questions: Am I a featured extra or a co-star?"

"She undulates her fingers winking with rings bright as eyes."

Happy new year, lovers.

"Shoulder to shoulder, becoming two soft moons rotating around a planet that is too invisible, too intimate for anyone."

"Just think, us both, on our next anniversary sitting across from one another shoveling lasagna into our gullets with our hands."

"Juicing the torrid sound, lips taut."

"He’d go to that party at that shitty apartment by Sherbourne Station and that very night a forest grew."

"No, I’d definitely kick the shovel. I’d interrupt. Her depravity can be offered at someone else’s altar."

"We conversed in soju breaths, with the sweet smell of galbi from the backseat."

On seasons – weather and life – and the way creative work endures in spite of both.

"Until I feel the bass in my chest, until I remember. Louder."

"I never burned ants, butchered cats, or masturbated in the back of class, but I’ve got this thread of freak woven straight through me."

"They’ll go on. Looking older than their years, because stolen or faked happiness gets hard on a body. Never thinking of you again."

"Sometimes one section goes out and then the rest, but what matters is there’s going to be darkness at some point."

"Whenever his table saw was spinning, he’d let his voice free to cut straight through it."

"Whatever reasons you have for wishing to feel the things you once did? You keep those to yourself.”

On the writer's aversion to—and need for—connection.

"It’s a scientific fact that time speeds up with age, I say. A year is 4.3% of my lifetime. It is only 2.3% of your lifetime."

"She has my blood taken, just in case, to run tests, but she’s sure of it: I have a cold in my butt."