The endless room for creativity in fiction makes it difficult to bind it to a definitive set of rules.
These images kept breaking in, things about Aubrey he fought so hard not to remember.
I am sitting in my mother’s red Bonneville station wagon. Mamá’s hair is still black and long and flows over the back of the seat.
"Something moved across the street. Between the rows of the first and second floor windows something dark and sinewy slipped from one hidden place to another."
It's really important to have this kind of representation for our culture, because there's not a lot of it out there.
It is Earth’s final snowfall / and everyone is here.
There’s a common misconception that escapist fiction is far removed from reality, but I would argue that it is simply a different kind of truth about another aspect of reality.
Promise me you won’t write a poem about me.
Don’t worry, I said, you’re the sea, and it’s impossible for the sea to drown. There’s nothing big enough for you.
Talk to me. Make me feel male.