.readfrommybedroom.

The following is from A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genuis, by Dave Eggers:

The cars flash around the turns of Highway 1, jump out from cliffs, all glass and light.  Each one could kill us.  All could kill us.  The possibilities leap into my head—we could be driven off the cliff and down and into the ocean.  But fuck, we’d make it, Toph and I, given our cunning, our agility, our presence of mind.  Yes, yes.  If we collided with a car at sixty miles per hour on Highway 1, we could jump out in time.  Yes, Toph and I could do that.  We’re quick-thinking, this is known, yes, yes.  See, after the collision, as our red Civic arced through the sky, we would quickly  plan out—no, no, we would instantly know the plan—what to do, the plan of course being obvious, so obvious: as the car arced downward, we would each, simultaneously, open our doors, car still descending, then each make or way to the outside of the car, car still descending, each on one side of the car, and then we would we would we would stand on the car’s frame for a second, car still descending, each holding on to the open car door or the car roof, and then, ever so briefly, as the car was now only thirty feet or so above the water, seconds until impact, we would look at each other knowingly—“You know what to do”; “Roger that” (we wouldn’t actually say these words, wouldn’t need to)—and then we’d both, again simultaneously of course, push off the car, so as to allow the appropriate amount of space between our impact and the car’s once we all landed, and then, as the Civic crashed into the ocean’s mulchy glass, we would, too, though in impeccable divers’ form, having changed our trajectory mid-flight, positioning our hands first, forward and cupped properly, our bodies perpendicular to the water, our toes pointed—perfect!  We’d plunge under, half-circle back to the surface and then break through, into the sun, whip our heads to shake the water from our hair and then swim to each other, as the car with bubbles quickly drowned. 
    ME:  Whew!  That was close!
    HE:  I’ll say!
    ME:  You hungry?
    HE:  Hey, you read my mind.

The following is from Jesus’ Son by Denis Johnson:

There was nothing wrong with me, and I hadn’t seen anything, but the policeman had to question me and take me to the hospital anyway.  The word came over his car radio that the man was now dead, just as we came under the awning of the emergency-room entrance. 
I stood in a tiled corridor with my wet sleeping bag bunched against the wall beside me, talking to a man from the local funeral home.
The doctor stopped to tell me I’d better have an X-ray.
“No.”
“Now would be the time.  If something turns up later…”
“There’s nothing wrong with me.”
Down the hall came the wife.  She was glorious, burning.  She didn’t know yet that her husband was dead.  We knew.  That’s what gave her such power over us.  The doctor took her into a room with a desk at the end of the hall, and from under the closed door a slab of brilliance radiated as if, by some stupendous process, diamonds were being incinerated in there.  What a pair of lungs!  She shrieked as I imagined an eagle would shriek.  It felt wonderful to be alive to hear it!  I’ve gone looking for that feeling everywhere.
“There’s nothing wrong with me” —I’m surprised I let those words out.  But it’s always been my tendency to lie to doctors, as if good health consisted only of the ability to fool them. 
Some years later, one time when I was admitted to the Detox at Seattle General Hospital, I took the same tack.
“Are you hearing unusual sounds or voices?” the doctor asked.
“Help us, oh God, it hurts,” the boxes of cotton screamed.
“Not exactly,” I said.
“Not exactly,” he said.  “Now what does that mean?”
“I’m not ready to go into all that,” I said.  A yellow bird fluttered close to my face, and my muscles grabbed.  Now I was flopping like a fish.  When I squeezed shut my eyes, hot tears exploded from the sockets.  When I opened them, I was on my stomach.
“How did the room get so white?” I asked.
A beautiful nurse was touching my skin. 
“These are vitamins,”  she said, and drove the needle in.
It was raining.  Gigantic ferns leaned over us.  The forest drifted down a hill.  I could hear a creek rushing down among rocks.  And you, you ridiculous people, you expect me to help you.

The following is from The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger

THAT’S ALL I’m going to tell about.  I could probably tell you what I did after I went home, and how I got sick and all, and what school I’m supposed to go to next fall, after I get out of here, but I don’t feel like it.  I really don’t.  That stuff doesn’t interest me too much right now.
A lot of people, especially this one psychoanalyst guy they have here, keeps asking me if I’m going to apply myself when I go back to school next September.  It’s such a stupid question, in my opinion.  I mean how do you know what you’re going to do till you do it?  The answer is, you don’t.  I think I am, but how do I know? I swear it’s a stupid question. 
D.B. isn’t as bad as the rest of them, but he keeps asking me a lot of questions, too.  He drove over last Saturday with this English babe that’s in this new picture he’s writing.  She was pretty affected, but very good-looking.  Anyway, one time when she went to the ladies’ room way the hell down in the other wing, D.B. asked me what I thought about all this stuff I just finished telling you about.  I didn’t know what the hell to say.  If you want to know the truth, I don’t know what I think about it. I’m sorry I told so many people about it.  About all I know is, I sort of miss everybody I told about.  Even old Stradlater and Ackley, for instance.  I think I even miss that goddam Maurice.  It’s funny.  Don’t ever tell anybody anything.  If you do, you start missing everybody.