Found: love letter on the street on Wilshire.

"Natalie Wood: America's most glamourous teenager."

Schweppes tonic water. Writing materials. Library carrel.

Loose marble on the back stairwell of a 1920s building in downtown LA. It smells like laundry back here.

Bradbury used to retype whole sections of other people's novels, just to learn their rhythm.

Why is it that forward momentum seems to be at odds with infinite possibility?

It rumbles all around, like thunder.

Everything's easier after the first row.

Thanks and thank you. Or, the difference between men and women.

There's a tear in the inky clouds over the city, and the fresh blue sky of the morning is edging its way in.

Hidden by the hyperbole, there is real danger here.

That moment when the hard learnin' you've been slogging through finally clicks into place.

Not on the train to grandmother's house.