He Loved The Scratching Of Pencil Against

For A Moment, She Was Quiet. Then She Grabbed My Hand, Whispered, “run Run Run Run Run,” And Took Off, Pulling Me Behind Her.

If You Don't Say The Honest Thing, It Never Becomes True.

Nothing To Be Gained By Worrying Between Now And Then.

Maybe This Time She Wanted To Be Found, And To Be Found By Me.

The Marks Humans Leave Are Too Often Scars. You Build A Hideous Minimall Or Start A Coup Or Try To Become A Rock Star And You'll Think "they'll Remember Me Now," But (a) They Don't Remember You, And (b) All You Leave Behind Are More Scars. Your Coup Becomes A Dictatorship. Your Minimall Becomes A Lesion.