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The things that break my heart are unpredictable and strange. They aren’t obvious or loud. They aren’t the things you might expect.

They’re small things. Words on a page.

Words are never very long.

A grown up man working in a teenage girls’ department store.

The specific stillness of an apartment between the hours of 12:34 and 1:12 in the morning.

The past week it has been too hot to sleep and too hot to do anything other than lie in bed, sweating, tired.

I’ve read a lot of books. Book after book after book.

Years and years ago I wrote a story about a dead mermaid on a beach. Last night I read it over again and remembered the armchair I sat in when I dreamed it up. The grey armchair that used to be in my parents’ basement. It followed me to New York and then it followed me back to Connecticut and it’s where I sat two and a half years ago for ten hour days, writing something I hoped would stick.

It stuck. It sticked.

The things that break my heart:

Words. A lullaby. A bashed-in car door. The enormous Los Angeles moon, orange and hanging.

Being too too hot.

Being too too tired

to keep


’til the end

of the chapter.




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