I Wondered About The Half-life Of Regret.

This Was My Modest Dream Come True: Unambitious Flight. The Kind That Never Even Got High Enough For A View.

This Was Love, I Supposed, And Eventually I Would Come To Know It. Someday It Would Choose Me And I Would Come To Know Its Spell, For Long Stretches And Short, Two Times, Maybe Three, And Then Quite Probably It Would Choose Me Never Again.

This Is What Happened In Love. One Of You Cried A Lot And Then Both Of You Grew Sarcastic.

If You're Suicidal, And You Don't Actually Kill Yourself, You Become Known As 'wry.

To Write A Short Story, You Have To Be Able To Stay Up All Night.