I have hardly a cursory grasp on proper punctuation, but dammit if I’m not enthusiastic about its implementation.  

The following is an excellent example:

Later, as Samuel traversed the pothole ridden space between his side of the leaning and useless half-fence divided yard and Ada’s, he would recount the way he felt a little pang of something in the upper regions of his chest, near his shoulder—the way it spread into his throat and bubbled there like soft sea foam cresting the shore as he saw the backs of her legs, white, narrow and languid, retreating into the mirror image of his own home.  He felt like sleeping on the kitchen floor again.  He felt like putting all of his belongings back into his Bronco and heading to the airport or the docks or helipad or anything mobile and headed overseas.  Something about the backs of her knees—the weight of his senses—made him want to be somewhere arid, hot, and lying comatose. 

This image of light flittering around the cotton haze of her dress, the beads of sweat surely then imperceptible from his vantage point, but remembered all the same, was something Samuel would recall with frequency late in his life as he lay immobile—a man whose life never stopped being fully realized in its heavy premonitions—on an ancient box spring, sick and delusional with fever in a room burning with sun.

Hi.  I’m using this for self-involved blathering from here on out.  Less image-y, more word-y.  I’m sure all six of you are just pissing your pants about it.

- K