Anything goes.
four-thirty a.m.
Infant’s Name: A Delivery Date: August 1, 2002
My mother has been dead for two hundred and forty-three days. I’ve had plenty of things in my refrigerator for longer.
No matter how you try to ignore it, you look like him. You look like your father.
Sitting at the bar on Pacific Avenue. With the seashells in the walls. Same bartender from last year, still here, making the same lethal Mai Tais.
People have always coped with flooding, and they learned to cope with death.
Her brown eyes, how a fig considers itself.
Sound engineers believe Alan Rickman possessed the perfect male voice. Early acting teachers told him he sounded like he was speaking from the back of a drainpipe.
The collective failure of ethical standards