A Writer Should Always Feel Like He's

We Become The Stories We Tell Ourselves

Youth Is The Only Sexy Tragedy. It's James Dean Jumping Into His Porsche Spyder, It's Marilyn Heading Off To Bed.

There Is Still That Singular Perfection, And It's Perfect In Part Because It Seemed, At The Time, So Clearly To Promise More.

The Vestibule Door Opens Onto A June Morning So Fine And Scrubbed Classira Pauses At The Threshold As She Would At The Edge Of A Pool, Watching The Turquoise Water Lapping At The Tiles, The Liquid Nets Of Sun Wavering In The Blue Depths. As If Standing At The Edge Of A Pool She Delays For A Moment The Plunge, The Quick Membrane Of Chill, The Plain Shock Of Immersion.

What Does It Mean To Regret When You Have No Choice? It's What You Can Bear. And There It Is... It Was Death. I Chose Life.