“I feel as exposed as a sweatshirt worn wrong-side-out, or like pocket linings dangling outside of a pair of jeans. My heart, my hope, hang in the afternoon sun.”

“ I tucked the charred piece of her sweatshirt i had recovered into the back pocket of my jeans. I am glad she is with me now. Nick's anklet touches my skin. He is here too.”

“I realized my hands were in my pockets. He couldn't hold one even if he wanted to. Not unless he actively dug it out, which would be weird. He probably thought I was sending him a specific message not to hold my hand.I took my hands out of my pockets.The problem is I like having my hands in my pockets. It's my natural position. They felt unwieldy hanging by my sides, as if I was walking like a Neanderthal. Why was I so bad at this?”

“Please send me your last pair of shoes, worn out with dancing as you mentioned in your letter, so that I might have something to press against my heart.”

“Afternoon experience: autographing exposed legs, outstretched in lines like matchsticks. Afternoon epiphany: Those with smooth, hairless legs would soon lose all evidence of my contact when the sweat causes the ink from the marker to run. I am ephemeral. Skepticism would be the reaction to those with thick leg hair, as their curls frazzle the lines of my name outward illegibly. Among the scaly-legged, I flaked off immediately, like I never was at all.”

“I like to hang out clothes on windy days. Sometimes that's all I feel like. A sheet on a line.”