Life was like that when you were fifteen and knobby-kneed and you only had a handful of choices. Your world was small and cruel and narrow-minded and breathtaking.

…girls were like poems: weird, incomprehensible and boring, but those “in the know” assured me that they were beautiful.

She didn't want to be considered a woman yet, wasn't ready to be the recipient of jewelry from men.

He lies there listening to it, absorbing this sense of his own quiet drone transmuted into something of certain substance, something large, magnificent and grand—no longer him, no, but something bursting from him, leaving his split carcass behind as a monument to its source, its host, its feeding ground.

Like the rest of the city, LAX is coming of age.

Only half a page left now. Shall I fill it with 'I love you, I love you'-- like father's page of cats on the mat? No. Even a broken heart doesn't warrant a waste of good paper.