I was told that Bela Lugosi was dead the night before I saw him on a three a.m. creature feature with his hands out, gnarled old wood that half-resembled crepe paper and the insides of shoe boxes.

I wasn’t as old as you think. I was older. I just didn’t know.

We used to climb bridges, scale girders and pretend to be crows.  Perch ourselves in windows long liberated of glass and look out over the river.

The one we could not cross.

Why, when people write about vampires do they never mention the OCD?

We lost Murietta that way, counting bits of gravel down the center line of the 401 too close to dawn. Jez scoured the dumpster behind Buca di Beppo for old garlic cloves until her skin split open and Adam wanted to see how many bubbles he could chase downstream when suddenly the wind picked up.

Just because you don’t breathe doesn’t mean you can’t drown.

I like us better when we’re book covers. When girls swoon and boys look at us sideways, all longing glances and untold secrets. I like us better in ruffles under New Orleans street lamps.

That’s the thing about fiction.

It’s always about nine hundred times better than the truth.