Making wistful noises at Red Lobster.
I'm getting pale and fat in London.
Such a rich emotion when the lady at Taco Bell said, "Welcome back."
Looking at these paintings, it's hard to believe I've been sober for eight years. But it feels good to do something for its own sake, results be damned.
They're like another species to me, these people who believe they know what's going on and what will happen next.
The memory of sitting in a church in a different country feels as though it belongs to some lost golden age.
I need a word for the slightly hungover sensation after a mindless bout of clicking and scrolling—a term for shaking off the digital residue.
“Sometimes I think they are graceful like ballerinas,” he said as we drove. “Other times, I think they are wicked.”
"You'll be working at least seventeen hours on Election Day," he said. "So bring a sandwich."
Sometimes I idle in the parking lot of a strip mall after midnight. 
I’ve been dreaming about tollbooth operators lately, maybe because they remind me of the years I spent working at a gas station.
These days the sight of someone’s mouth at the supermarket looks like an obscenity. We can get used to the strangest things.