Writing A Novel Resembles A

He Saw That No One Owned Anything Really. It's All Rented, Or Borrowed. Our Possessions Will Outlast Us, We'll Desert Them In The End.

Oblivion Seemed The Only Reasonable Option.

And Feeling Clever, I've Always Thought, Is Just A Sigh Away From Being Cheerful.

What Can It Be About Low Temperatures That Sharpens The Edges Of Objects?

She Loved Him, Though Not At This Particular Moment.