Patron saint of empathy that I am, I ask her to give me my book back. She's had it for a month and she's not even reading it.
Those little lights shimmering out there in the distance, I could believe the city is alive at night. I could believe those roads are tiny veins, the cars tiny blood cells. The city could wake just after the sun sets, stretching and yawning and breathing and vibrant, and I could belong here maybe if I hadn't cut myself off from everything a long time ago.
Me in my car, sharing not even the camaraderie of driving with other people in their cars, all of us speeding towards nothing in particular.
And I think it's a shame he'll never see it, this view, that boy that died. And I think it's a shame that I don't believe in God, because I could really use one or two of those right now.