While he was waiting, leaning on the counter at a coffee place, he remembered the dream he’d had the night before about Antonio Jones, who had been dead for several years now. As before, he asked himself what Jones could have died of, and the one answer that occurred to him was old age. One day, walking down some street in Brooklyn, Antonio Jones had felt tired, sat down on the sidewalk, and a second later stopped existing.

Books are finite, sexual encounters are finite, but the desire to read and to fuck is infinite; it surpasses our own deaths, our fears, our hopes for peace.

All names disappear. Children should be taught that in elementary school. But we’re afraid to teach them.

I am dying now, but I still have many things to say.