“Dios mio, I think my brother lost his balls somewhere between here and Mexico. Or maybe Brittany has them zipped inside that fancy purse (of hers).”

“Querida, it's alright," he said. "No one has hurt me in years.""Hey, you're supposed to be my brother," I said, trying to joke. "Brother's don't hold their sisters' hands or call them querida."Seb smiled, his hazel eyes starting to dance. "Yes, they do," he said. "This happens all the time.""Well I guess things are different in Mexico then," I said. "Because in America, no way. And I'm an American.""But you're in Mexico now," he pointed out."Right. And you're saying here, boys holds hands with their sisters and call them sweetheart.""Oh yes. We're very friendly, we Mexicans.”

“And then again, maybe people and things are the same as emotions: Even when you can't see them or feel them or be with them, and even when they have died and even before they are born, they still exist somewhere. Far away or close, they're always somewhere. Maybe nothing in the world is truly lost, I think.”

“I lost my balls! Aarfy, I lost my balls!”

“He's very nice. He's something I replied. She considered this zipping her purse shut. Then she said Well everyone is. Everyone is Something. For some reason that stuck with me simple and yet not every since she'd said it. It was like a puzzle as well two vague words with one clear one between them.”

“Against my better judgment I feel certain that somewhere very near here—the first house down the road, maybe—there's a good poet dying, but also somewhere very near here somebody's having a hilarious pint of pus taken from her lovely young body, and I can't be running back and forth forever between grief and high delight.”