I just finished Catcher in the Rye. It stuck:

Once again, I was leaving my door behind. Quite farther behind than my parents would have liked. Nothing against them, just some things I needed to fix. I made my way north, past a few sleeping faces.

The streetlights were always dim. The city fell behind in its civil upkeep now and then. In fact, now. I didn’t want to ride my bike there, it wouldn’t play into my scenario very well. I’d show up at the door, “Uh, hi Rave, I’ve loved you since third grade. Can I put this in your garage or something? I don’t want the dew to rust it. Thanks.”

Her name’s Raven. It’s her most endearing quality; probably why I was so attracted to her in the first place. Sounds like something from a movie; I like that. Her parents were hippies. You know. I always imagined her sitting in a café in Paris or some crap like that. Like in the movies. Not here, not now. Never here, certainly. Maybe back in the sixteen-hundreds, when she was some Indian deity-war-goddess-thing. It would fit her.

I knew I was supposed to be thinking about things. Raven, me, me and Raven, life, existentialism, all of it. Any of it might do, but all I could see was this dog I saw earlier. It had worms, I assume; it was dragging its ass all over my driveway. My parents were rotating through a circular set of shock, anger, despair, uncontrollable laughter and brief horror as it started leaving little red streaks on the concrete. Luckily, it had the good sense to stop then, and we told its owners they should probably take it to the vet. I had to clean the driveway. Of course.
I found myself smiling. No time for smiling, I was trying to incubate worthy memories. Something I can revisit when I'm older, maybe by only a week.