But the stories you told yourself — which you pretended to recall as if they'd happened every afternoon of an infinite summer — were really a pocketf… - Jonathan Lethem

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But the stories you told yourself — which you pretended to recall as if they'd happened every afternoon of an infinite summer — were really a pocketful of days distorted into legend, another jailhouse exaggeration, like the dimensions of those ballpoint-crosshatched tits or of the purported mountains of blow you once used to enjoy, or how you'd bellowed an avenger's roar when you squeezed the trigger of a pistol you'd actually brandished in self-pissing terror. How often had that hydrant even been opened? Did you jet water through a car window, what, twice at best? Summer burned a few afternoons long, in the end.