Already, I can see that, whenever Harold moves, some of his soul escapes, like an accidental exhalation, like breath on powder.

I twisted the nozzle and lit the alcove in yellow light. It was somber light. The light of alleyways in Brixton. I was in shadows, as I liked to be. An empty egg shelf split the yolky top from the dark underneath.

It was a curious little thing—a small wooden box, about a foot in any direction, unvarnished and imperfect, with a couple of knots in the grain.

"Hey buddy. Hey! Ain't you got no place to go to?"

Whenever I put one over on my wife, she gives me a look, then curls her fingers and scratches the air.

Jackson ran his sweaty hands over his vintage cowboy shirt hoping testosterone would iron it.

I was going through Lenin's jewelry and his paintings with a team of experts. I got the idea that I was hired to verify his paintings, although I didn't know he painted.

He pounds the roof of the Pontiac with the side of his fist and it rumbles like a timpani. He raises his head to light and wipes the sweat from his forehead. There's no sense in fighting it. He will go back and knock on Peter's door.