If Nothing Else, I Will Have at Least Written This Sentence: Sentences from an Unwritten Novel

His proximity to the heavens and stars after camping in the Berkshires intensified his desire to "get off the grid."

She needed to "get to the lake" or camp at least once every summer in order to endure the cabin fever of winter.

He had been subjected to a spot check while wearing  his favorite plaid jacket.

As his understanding of time was altered--i.e., when he became aware that no one, including himself, escaped--his concept of time became more scrambled and abstract, less tangible.

During quiet moments, like early in the morning or late at night, as she sat at the table sipping coffee or lay in bed trying to sleep, listening to a train, she felt like a portal through which incoherent and indecipherable transmissions from undiscovered dimensions were emitted.

He walked places.

It had always been important that he had been right in front of the stage, pushed right up against the edge, or in the front row, right below the lead singer, since he would never be in the spotlight.

She was in her greatest element on the longest night of the year, and she could feel her powers intensify.

He stoically dedicated the show to those who had gone before, and to those who could see with their eyes closed, and then they began to play without another word to each other or anyone else for the rest of the night.

After he peeled back the pink strip of hair on the cyborg's head, he wished he had selected a different sort of nightmare.

The neon lights and tinted, reflective windows, the colorful newspaper boxes and fire hydrants, the crappy graffiti and commercial signage of the strip embodied the hues of her soul as seen in her eyes.

Not even a bottle of Coca-Cola could strip the garlic from his breath.

It was fair to say that he had, and continued to, borrow from Jasper Johns, believing that he might as well borrow, since everyone did, from the best.

She didn't let little things like runny eggs ruin her day.

He took the heat like a neatly folded square of paper tucked into his pocket.

The whole gig revolved around the fact that he could see, as a boy, that he had been born Ojibwa but hadn't been raised as if; the rupture in identity, as a result, had been huge.

She found it hard to explain that writing was as abstract as living to people who didn't write.

He wondered what she was doing, even though she was only on the other side of town, and found it hard to comprehend that other people were doing other things while he typed.

He found the commercials to be better than the programs.

The day was an organism which he adapted to his needs and desires.

Day in and out, he relied upon the casserole to balance the humane with the existential; today was no exception, and so, viola!

He needed a drink.

When he was young, he complemented some of the most memorable and infamous events of his life, some of them planned, some of them accidents, mistakes or misfortunes, with shocking, unforgettable haircuts.

He had had a belt with ersatz Native American bead work on it when he was a boy that had actually made him feel less indigenous than people would believe he actually was.

During the warm, sunny interim of the day, he often sat erect at his desk on the eighty-seventh floor like an android and stared out of the large plate-glass windows over the city and went to a place where although he could be seen and observed by the other partners and secretaries and visitors, if they happened to glance into his office, he couldn't be found.

She had a hunch that the tenant in 24B was a simulacrum in the strictest sense, combining artificial intelligence with biologic features.

Sometimes he tried to match natural forces with an army of synthetic cliches.

The reservoir burst unexpectedly, and after the flood waters dissipated, they discovered that he had become a casualty in the pent up zeitgeist of the 90s.

Her garlicky croutons sailed on a wave of Caesar dressing atop a bed of sea-colored lettuce.

He applied copious amounts of sunscreen on the exposed segments and hemispheres of his body before demanding anything of the sun.

His lyrics gained power because of his adamant unwillingness to defend their obvious lack of strength.

She applied for a visa to another genre because she was sick of the short story she was living.

He woke up without a theme this morning and therefore felt inclined to stay indoors.

He was certain that he would love her when she was no longer young and beautiful, and went so far as to say so, although it was over the phone, so maybe a little removed?

She'd argued with him in public because after dinner he'd insisted that she had been born to live.

Lana called and they talked for a while, and he confided that he did indeed actually have that summertime sadness, but it wasn't true.

When he imagined having lunch with his favorite painter, it played out as follows: a lunch meeting at a shaded outdoor cafe, coffee, a light meal, a few brief casual remarks about a recent opening or exhibition, a beer, a newspaper, a convoluted inner monologue concerning the night before, a syncing of watches, a napkin, a handshake--as if old friends.

She refused to knowingly contribute to the burgeoning stupefaction of the masses.

Afflictions and maledictions aside, he was having a good day.

It wasn't a crime to carry cans of spray paint around in one's backpack, but it wasn't the smartest, and for this he'd paid the price.

She had never cared what others thought; she would've dated that punk rock boy in a heartbeat.

He had written a short story that featured a character who went around to public libraries to rip out the last pages of modern classics only to discover that one of his closest friends was secretly guilty of such deviant behavior; everything had already been done.

He sped onward and wished well all of the trains departing from the Grand Central Station of his mind.

She imagined that in a post apocalyptic scenario there would be very little inhibition, if any, which both thrilled and terrified her.

He felt a bird fly in and heard maybe a voice as a door opened within.

The omnipresent amplification of music in all aspects of society--malls, elevators, gas station pumps, cafe patios, ipods, commercials, films, birthday cards, caskets--resulted in a "soundtrack without end", making life seem more like a take on a reality TV show or a scene from "this summer's greatest experience" than the real deal: made him wonder in moments of unbelievable and unexpected silence if he was in fact asleep and struggling somewhere in his subconsciousness to inform himself that "it [was] only a dream."

She wasn't planning on comparing notes with anyone; in the future, everyone could look at hers, if they wanted to.

He looked at the sparrow on the wrought iron rail and realized it was actually there.