“As soon as I saw that doll all splotched with mud, I saw myself, saw how soiled I was. Or thought I was. From that minute on, I felt liked I'd slipped through a hole in God's pocket. Just took a dive right into the dirt and was lost forever."Greg kissed Faron's hair. "You never hit the dirt. You just slid from one pocket to another. That's what I did too - I took a journey I was meant to take. I know that now."Absorbing this, Faron slanted a puzzled look at Greg. "Which pocket do you suppose I landed in?""This one. The one we're in together. The one I believe we'll stay in."Faron felt a thrill of optimism in his heart. "I never thought of it that way.""I never did either. Until today." Greg once again settled onto Faron's chest. His cheek moved noticeable into a smile. "God isn't small, honey. God has a lot of freakin' pockets. And we just found the one we belong in.”

“Faron didn’t answer, just picked up his rant where he’d left off. “I wish I didn’t have a dick. Ever since I fell through that hole in God’s pocket, I think I’ve subconsciously wished I had something else down there. LIke... fuck, I don’t know... an ice cream machine or something.” Greg snorted into surprised laughter. “you kind of already do. Although it’s more like a yogurt maker.”

“I saw an old guy sleeping, and I thought he was dead. But I kept checking his pockets for money, because it seemed like the right thing to do.”

“Greg stands up, wiping his mouth. "I saw your mother's trial in the paper, Sharpe. I know you're just like her.""If I was, I would make you beg to blow me," I sneer.”

“I suppose every one must have reflected how primeval and how poetical are the things that one carries in one's pocket; the pocket-knife, for instance, the type of all human tools, the infant of the sword. Once I planned to write a book of poems entirely about things in my pockets. But I found it would be too long; and the age of the great epics is past.”

“The other day I found 20 dollars. It was just lying in a wallet I took from some guy’s pocket.”