“As a white American adult man, I am programmed to bathe in complete silence with the lights out. I joylessly shave my face once every four to five days. I comb my hair limply and mechanically. I clothe myself with whatever is clean and happens to be at the top of the clothes pile. I bike to work. I work. I each lunch. I work some more. I go home and stare blankly at cyclists and people walking their dogs and old ladies on afternoon strolls, all of whom are just outside my bedroom window. I eat dinner. I read a book. I listen to music. . . .”

“There was something beautiful and human about the whole thing. We were all gathered at the center of the universe, as far as we were concerned, to see a band that didn’t even have an album out yet. We were there because we wanted to feel something, and because the men on stage, with their guitars and drumsticks and saxophones and trumpets and harmonicas—promised to deliver something raw and wonderful that would stir us from our ennui, and make us better creatures than we had been before. And we let them; we opened ourselves up and let them inside. . . .”

“Yes, and long have I paced these halls in this catacomb of eternal winter; and long have I mourned the absences of warmth which were once kept so tenderly inside. Now all turns to ash. I crave the fruit of my younger years, and yet I am met with the icy nothingness of this rotten world—and am mocked and teased by the demons which tug at the ragged strands of me. . . .”

“Eventually I jumped out of bed and ran into the bathroom, where I drew a hot bath, for I was deeply chilled at that moment. As the bathtub filled, I knelt before the toilet and stuck my finger down my throat. I sloshed it around until I hit the magic button, and a torrent of red liquid came pouring out of my mouth and nose. I sat for a moment and wondered what red thing I had eaten, and could find no answer. In fact I couldn’t remember having eaten anything that day. I shrugged. My stomach was still sick with alcohol, and my skin was still cool and rubbery. So I put my finger in my mouth again. The next blast was entirely clear. I sat erect and smoothed my mustache with my left hand. I was instantly relieved of all my terrible drunk afflictions. . . .”

“Then there was a little blond-haired man standing atop a truncated pyramid. Wind was blowing at the surface of the pyramid. The sun was high in the sky. Everything was beautifully pixelated. The little blond man was huffing and puffing and holding up a silver space-gun. A blue alien with an enormous cyclopian eye began moon-jumping up the left side of the screen. I put my finger over him. A pathetic slime-green orb dribbled out of my space-gun, and rolled down the side of the pyramid. . . .”

“That night I drove for seventy miles up interstate 95, headed north—headed to the doom-metropolis of Baltimore. It had been nearly three months since I had been there. I knew very well the emotions which would rise to the surface—knew that my heart would be twisted and beaten against the wall, and that my eyes would darken and fill with the tears of many lonely nights and a pain that refused to dissolve itself from my conscious mind. A three-syllable name belonging to a faint glimmer of a person I had once known was on my lips, daring me to utter it, mocking me with ill intent. . . .”

“When he’s not shaming his family with his stupid writing hobby (the Starsailors have no respect for hackneyed storytelling), he’s either drinking a Lone Star tallboy, or gulping down a melatonin or two in order to expedite the sleeping process. He’s had a rather draining life. . . .”

“Open me up. Take what you will. You may have it all. I’ve already been stripped of everything that matters—already been torn to pieces by love-marauders and blameless goddesses. I have been plundered and shaken and left to sit in this crater with my hands tied behind my back and my eyes sewn shut. I can hear locusts. . . .”

“We are sharing a dream. In our dream there is an oak tree. We lie beneath it—lie in the shade of the oak tree. The moon casts its glow over us and we are hiding from it.

Your face is spotted with pale light. It is outlined by the white orb hanging over us. You look beautiful. You look lovely. I promise in my heart that I will love you forever. . . .”

“Chantal made eye-contact with her friend Carley, who was seated in the front row of the balcony with an architect named Peter. After some mouthing back and forth, and hand motions which told us we should move, we moved. We sat down next to Carley and Peter. I waved to Carley and shook Peter’s hand. He did his best to give me a firm handshake. He did the manly double-pump. I didn’t play that game. I just gave him a regular, medium-strength shake that lasted half a second. I could tell he wanted more, but that’s all I gave him. . . .”