"Living in a dreamland," Bankwell suggested.
"Indeed," said Flowers. "But the rent is coming due."
"...Late afternoon in late August, the sky limited only by the hills and the imminent wall of night. Palm tree, sycamore trees, soaked in shadow. Slouch-hat bungalows blazing sunshine at their crowns. Archy (the soon to be a father guy above) took it all in with the ardor of a doomed man. Not that he believed himself to be in any danger or was dying in any but the slowest and most conventional of ways. The clarity and sweetness of the evening, the light and the way it made his chest ache, were only the effects of mild panic, panic both moral and practical.
When he got out of his car, the evening laid its cool palm against his weary brow as if feeling for a temperature. He stood on the sidewalk in front of his house. The El Camino's engine sighed and muttered to itself, settling. A toddler archeologist searched the sandbox with a red shovel...."
From pages 210 and 211 in Michael Chabon's latest novel, Telegraph Avenue.