Her Forehead Was A Maze Of Anxious

You Start Admiring Someone Who's Famous For Actually Doing Something---imagine That---and I Swear To You I Will Buy You Every Item In Her Entire Wardrobe. But Over My Own Dead Body Will I Spend My Own Time And Money Turning You Into A Clone Of Some Brain-dead Waste Of Skin Who Thinks The Pinnacle Of Achievement Is Selling Her Wedding Shots To A Magazine.

We Think About Mortality So Little, These Days, Except To Flail Hysterically At It With Trendy Forms Of Exercise And High-fiber Cereals And Nicotine Patches.

I Love Writing. I Feel Ridiculously Lucky That This Is What I Get To Do All Day.

This Girl: She Bent Reality Around Her Like A Lens Bending Light, She Pleated It Into So Many Flickering Layers That You Could Never Tell Which One You Were Looking At, The Longer You Stared The Dizzier You Got.

Now Death Is Uncool, Old-fashioned. To My Mind The Defining Characteristic Of Our Era Is Spin, Everything Tailored To Vanishing Point By Market Research, Brands And Bands Manufactured To Precise Specifications; We Are So Used To Things Transmuting Into Whatever We Would Like Them To Be That It Comes As A Profound Outrage To Encounter Death, Stubbornly Unspinnable, Only And Immutably Itself.