A Lot Of Geeks Are Pale, Bespectacled,

Perhaps The Window Is Not A Sun But An Asterisk, Interrupting The Grammar Of The Sky, With Me Sitting Below It Like A Footnote.

There's Plenty Of Stuff That I Don't Feel Dissident About: I Really Like Tea, I Don't Have Any Problem With That. I Like Lots Of Paintings.

We Would Never Call Inexplicable Little Insights Hunches, For Fear Of Drawing The Universe's Attention. But They Happened, And You Knew You Had Been In The Proximity Of One That Had Come Through If You Saw A Detective Kiss His Or Her Fingers And Touch His Or Her Chest Where A Pendant To Warsha, Patron Saint Of Inexplicable Inspirations, Would, Theoretically, Hang.

I Think Science Fiction Is Very Bad At Prediction.

In Time, In Time They Tell Me, I'll Not Feel So Bad. I Don't Want Time To Heal Me. There's A Reason I'm Like This. I Want Time To Set Me Ugly And Knotted With Loss Of You, Marking Me. I Won't Smooth You Away. I Can't Say Goodbye.