“Dancing? Not only do I have two left feet, but they’re different sizes. And I don’t put them in shoes—I store them in glass jars in my basement.”

“Sure, I have nice shoes. They’re in my closet, collecting a patina of dust. My shoes were made for dancing, and that’s why they’re dusty, because my feet, unfortunately, were not made for dancing. My feet were made for making wine, and that’s why my walk is intoxicating.”

“We danced together. We didn’t look graceful, but how could we? She only had one leg and I had my eyes on her friend the whole night. Sure, her friend couldn’t dance either, and literally had two left feet, but I’ll take two left feet over one left foot any day.”

“She handed him a glass of water and two Aleve gelcaps. “They’re anti-inflammatories. They will dull the pain a little bit and keep down swelling and redness. Swallow the pills, don’t chew.”“Well, I thought I’d stick them into my nose and impersonate a walrus, but if you insist, I’ll swallow them.”

“I know forever they will be in my house, the rooms of my mind, I know this and I have accepted this but while I know they will be there I want them dead there. I cannot have them breathing there! I want them in the floirboards of the basement of my soul.”

“It is strange to hear my wordsRead back to me.I don't think I wrote themTo have them ever leave the page.I think I only writeWhat happens across my brainWhen my feet are too weary To dance anymore.”