
These stories are all true, but only somewhere else.

Everything I write is for her; none of it is ever good enough.

The idea of it's great," I explain. "But then there's the actual thing of it.

The truth is only slightly less interesting than the story.

We'd been bankrupt since we'd left home; we'd secure our own society. Retirement was an afterlife we didn't believe in and that we expected yesterday.

The best thing to do - usually - was to let him play these things out. Who was I to tell a genius it was time to put his clothes back on?

It was like exactly what it was. It was like a set of claws tearing through my flesh.

Because no one was special, and no one was immune to tragedy.