What Molds Us Is What Maims Us.

Catch Me On A Good Day, I Think Half Of My Books Aren't Too Bad. Catch Me On A Bad Day, I Think I've Never Written A Good Line.

He Wanted To Ask Her What Sound A Heart Made When It Broke From Pleasure, When Just The Sight Of Someone Filled You The Way Food, Blood, And Air Never Could, When You Felt As If You'd Been Born For Only One Moment And This, For Whatever Reason, Was It.

What Molds Us Is What Maims Us.

The Ornament Of Beauty, Shakespeare Wrote, Is Suspect. And He Was Right. But Beauty Itself, Unadorned And Unaffected, Is Sacred, I Think, Worthy Of Our Awe And Our Loyalty.

He Wondered If This Was What Clinical Depression Felt Like, A Total Numbness, A Weary Lack Of Hope.