Please, God, Send Me Something To Adore.

On A Summer Night It Can Be Lovely To Sit Around Outside With Friends After Dinner And, Yes, Read Poetry To Each Other. Keats And Yeats Will Never Let You Down, But It's Differently Exciting To Read The Work Of Poets Who Are Still Walking Around Out There.

I Just Don't Feel Much Interested In The Lifestyles Of The Rich And Famous.

He Wanted To Tell Her That He Was Inspired And Vigilant And Recklessly Alone, That His Body Contained His Unsteady Heart And Something Else, Something He Felt But Could Not Describe: Porous And Spiky, Shifting With Flecks Of Thought, With Urge And Memory; Salted With Brightness, Flickerings Of White And Green And Pale Gold; Something That Loved Stars Because It Was Made Of The Same Substance.

What A Thrill, What A Shock, To Be Alive On A Morning In June, Prosperous, Almost Scandalously Privileged, With A Simple Errand To Run.

People Are More Than You Think They Are. And They're Less, As Well. The Trick Lies In Negotiating Your Way Between The Two.