You Were My Home, Mother. I Had

The Cake Had A Trick Candle That Wouldn't Go Out, So I Didn't Get My Wish. Which Was Just That It Would Always Be Like This, That My Life Could Be A Party Just For Me.

This Was The Wonderful Thing About Strangers. They Were Big Blank Pieces Of Paper, You Could Draw Watever You Like On Their Impresionable Surfaces

I Closed My Eyes To Watch Tiny Dancers Like Jeweled Birds Cross The Dark Screen Of My Eyelids.

Darkness Coiled Between What He Wanted Them To Believe And The Self He Despised. It Only Made Him More Alone. How Could You Save Someone When He Didn't Let You Kno Him? What A Waste. The Beauty He Murdered In This Place. He Could Never See What He Had, Only What He Failed To Achieve.

A Novel Is Like A Dream In Which Everyone Is You. They’re All Parts Of Yourself.