No, this isn’t anxiety—anxiety is defined by uncertainty. But she is certain.
I leaned down and kissed her hand, and I didn’t care if people looked. She was my mother, after all.
It’s funny what a sentence in a book can do. It sticks in your head. Lies seems to stick even harder than the truth.
She talks about these fish like they’re men who cheated on their wives.
I wonder if each life has its own ration on love. I wonder if I’ll know when mine has run out, how I’ll know when the right time comes to spend it.
There’s just no saving this.
“No one knows what’s going on in here.” He pointed to his chest or his head, I don’t remember.
A lap full of pulled threads piled up looking like spiraling incense ash, something to read your fortune in.
All my life, everything had happened with the beginning wrapped in the shroud of its own end.
For me, typically, story ideas are like rainbow trout: elusive, finicky, difficult to find and even harder to bring in once you’ve found them.