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

He often found himself in art museums on warm, sunny days.

The words were elongated and heavy, like a printing die, but all she could grasp was that someone was speaking.

He tried to think of a way of using the word parfait as a modifier, or a verb, but it just wouldn't happen.

And then it was that we saw him walking, truly and freely through the sun-drenched neighborhood, like a Yeti, unencumbered and surrounded by a halo of majestic natural wisdom, up and out of the dampness of everyone's negativity, from the angry drivers to the neurotic apocalypse seekers.

Despite being told, "No," at every turn, she turned every corner and held out her, "Yes."

Coming up and out of the neighborhood, as if it were Fitzgerald's valley of ashes, or Homer's underworld, he had the sudden urge to hurl his refill mug as far as he could, because he could--though really the culture had paralyzed such impulses for better or worse at a very young age--thus walking naked and unencumbered, although fully clothed, freely and truly as intended.

Technology was against him.