The Darkest Nights Produce The Brightest Stars.

"nothing Ever Happens Like You Imagine It Will," She Says. The Sky Is Like A Monochromatic Contemporary Painting, Drawing Me In With Its Illusion Of Depth, Pulling Me Up. "yeah, That's True," I Say. But Then After I Think About It For A Second, I Add, "but Then Again, If You Don't Imagine, Nothing Ever Happens At All."

Go Spit In The Face Of Our Inevitable Obsolescence And Finish Your @#$&ng Novel.

I'm A Grenade, I Just Want To Stay Away From People And Read Books, And Think.

Every Second Of Your Definitionally Temporary Consciousness, You Are Choosing How You Spend Something That Will Not Last Forever.

I Love You' Really Is The Gateway Drug Of Breaking Up.