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“What would Toby do?” is a question that often appears in my mind.

Dining at Bocuse wasn’t about food, but about pleasure in all its forms.

Even Medusa was beautiful once, before the sea, snakes, stone. Any chimera is regal if you turn a certain way. Even Medusa was beautiful.

There’s something to stepping right out of your dreams and onto the page.

I wish I could tell her that we aren’t supposed to know why we’re here.

A more typical writing day for me is being constantly interrupted.

Intimacies of the body can outlive resistances of the mind.

Today brings a blue hour, but the jasmine has been dead for weeks.

The phone rang at an awkward hour, too late at night to be good news.

My mother was dead. Almost a month she was dead, killed by me.

I am desperate to love myself, to tolerate myself, vanity is fine.

Isn’t Nightshade sad, people said; isn’t he pathetic; isn’t he hideous.

These old guitar players were the last pure thing this country produced.

Here’s the world, sweetheart. One word as small & large as a father.

I want everything to mean. To have worth and weight. But it doesn’t.

Like steps of passing ghosts, the leaves break from the trees.

There’s no way to escape a storm at sea; it hits you, and you can’t hit back.

The end’s already in motion, the end was starting this whole time.

How many gods do you believe in? How many good men?

She’s not the same, her body more naked in its aging, its disorder.

You come hot, marching between one blazing Arab & one crazy Jew.

It is a city of sea, sun, boulevards, strolling beauties, life-altering food.

Once upon a time, a couple wandered in a glass forest, hand in hand.

Children, this is what a bad dream looks like, our teacher said.

Is it that he is too tired or too afraid to blink into the oil of his own machine?

I sometimes have to laugh because even now, as a middle-aged man.

Eros, myth, life, and literature in brilliant paintings by Lincoln Perry.

Take some cherry tomatoes, I say when the moon rises over the pine.