The Best Thing About The Iphone Is

Summer Is A Latvian Chicken. We Make Foolish Choices. We Think We’re Young Again. We Run With Outstretched Arms Toward An Object Of Love And It Pecks Us And Pecks Us Until We’re Standing There Snot-nosed And Teary In The Middle Of Astor Place And The Sun Sets Fire To Our Penguin Shirts And All That Is Left To Do Is Go To Our Air-conditioned Homes And Ponder The Cruelty Of Our Finest Season.

People Always Write On My Facebook That They've Seen Somebody They Thought Was Me On The Subway, And I Was Cursing Badly.

On That Night I Was Left With Only The Truth That Nothing Of Our Personality Survives After Death, That In The End All That Was Misha Vainberg Would Evaporate Along With The Styles And Delusions Of His Epoch, Leaving Behind Not One Flutter Of His Sad Heavy Brilliance, Not One Damp Spot Around Which His Successors Could Congregate To Appreciate His Life And Times.

The Memoirs I Love Are All Very Intense. If You're Going To Do A Memoir And Protect Yourself, What The Hell's The Point? Just Do Fiction.

You Could Drown A Kitten In Her Blue Eyes.