“[I hear phone sex can work], I sent, [but I kind of doubt text-sex would.]He sent me a picture shot down his pants. I snickered and sent him a picture of my mouth.[autehigixuhi&^%$], he sent back. Then, [yeah, phone sex not satisfying. Also I think I dick-dialed Kentucky.]”

“I flipped open my phone and sent Daniel a text: I love you.As I crawled into bed, my phone beeped with a message back from him: Always.”

“Ask me again, Tristan read on his cell phone. Ask what? he sent back. Why I call you Sparky. Michael fumbled with the keys, not looking up. Well, sure, why? Tristan sent back. You light me up, came the answer, and Tristan's nimble fingers stopped on the keys. He stared hard at the small screen on his phone, the text message right there, waiting to see if he would send a reply. He just sat and stared till his phone turned off, unable to look up into the oh-so-blue eyes of the man who had sent it.”

“I wasn't sent here to find angels! I wasn't sent here to dream of them. I wasn't sent here to hear them sing! I was sent here to be alive. To breathe and sweat and thirst and sometimes cry.”

“At lunch I turned my phone on to check my messages. Georgia always sent me a few inane texts during the day, and sure enough there were two messages from her: one complaining about her physics teacher and a second, also obviously sent from her phone: I love you, baby. V.I wrote her back: I thought I told you to buzz off last night, you creep-o French stalker guy.Her response came back immediately: As if! Your beet-red cheeks this morning suggest otherwise ... liar! You're so into him.I groaned and was about to turn my phone off when I saw that there was a third text from UNKNOWN. Clicking on it, I read: Can I pick you up from school? Same place, same time?I texted back: How'd you get my number?Called myself from your phone while you were in the restaurant's bathroom last night. Warned you we were stalkers!”

“Once a little boy sent me a charming card with a little drawing on it. I loved it. I answer all my children’s letters — sometimes very hastily — but this one I lingered over. I sent him a card and I drew a picture of a Wild Thing on it. I wrote, “Dear Jim: I loved your card.” Then I got a letter back from his mother and she said, “Jim loved your card so much he ate it.” That to me was one of the highest compliments I’ve ever received. He didn’t care that it was an original Maurice Sendak drawing or anything. He saw it, he loved it, he ate it.”