Greg practices the fine art of flash fiction, here:
'There's a girl at the next table and she's Juliet just now. But she's like me, and isn't about to wait until the third act to start drinking poison. The trouble is, I've had five glasses of amber Cyrano de Bergerac and my tongue's depressed and I'm in the wrong play. What difference does it make, really?"
And waxes philosophical about parenting and life on the road, here:
"...those boys must belong to you. Up to a point, they do. But they are beginning to belong to themselves, and are fixing to belong to the whole world as well. It breaks your heart in a wonderful way to picture your children grown up and elsewhere."