“Unless you can say disorganization is a process, I confess I don’t have one.”

“My class anthology was more of an environment than a set syllabus.”

“Going to sleep is so general. Am I most like others or most like myself?”

It’s February 13, 1994. I drive to Ed’s house as though I were late, wind buffeting the car. I feel my heart beating throughout my body, even in my hands and groin. Will I fail as a mourner?