Ave Maria. Barbacoa tacos, with lime, cilantro, and a wedge of avocado. The 1941 version of The Maltese Falcon. The smell of oak, wet with dew, at 6am. Cactus roses. Prufrock. Adam’s Curse. Peter Quince at the Clavier. Chicken Masala. Lady Lazerus. That Morning. Kindness, whenever it happens. Iced tea. Red Wind. Weaver’s perfume, wherever I may find it. As I Walked Out One Evening. The Ode to Joy. Look Homeward, Angel. The red dirt of home. Cherokee Creek. Spunky Holler. Tamales. When John Wayne holds Natalie Wood up in the air, and says, with gentleness and humanity, Let’s go home, Debbie. The British version of The Office. The Lady Eve. The Concerto for Two Violins in D Minor. Gatsby. La Mexicana. Nessun Dorma. Redemption. Compassion. Red beans and rice. The game afoot. The Royal Tenenbaums. Buffalo grass. Sunflowers. Nothing but net. Love and Mercy. Thunder Road. Noir. That’s how it crumbles. Cookie-wise. Chana Masala. All things Gonzo. The smell of a baseball glove. My wound is geography. Baba ganoush. The Grievous Angel. Crossing the Colorado River, into San Saba County. If You See Her, Say Hello. Batboy. Colonel Blimp. The Big Sleep. Nigel Tufnel. Hey Jude. The Diary of Adam & Eve. Happy endings. The Lubitsch touch. Texas. Uva uvam vivendo varia fit. Mystery Girl. I recommend pleasant. And you may quote me.