All Of My Books Come From Pain.

No One Is Drawn To Writing About Being Happy Or Feelings Of Joy.

What Do You Do?' She Asks, Holding Out The Vest. 'what Do You Do?' 'what Do You Do?' She Asks, Her Voice Shaking. 'don't Ask Me, Please. Okay, Clay?' 'why Not?' She Sits On The Mattress After I Get Up. Muriel Screams. 'because... I Don't Know,' She Sighs. I Look At Her And Don't Feel Anything And Walk Out With My Vest.

The Smiths Are Singing And Someone Says "turn That Gay Angst Music Off.

I Kept Staring Into The Blackness Of The Woods, Drawn Into The Darkness As I Always Had Been. I Suddenly Realized How Alone I Was. (but This Is How You Travel, The Wind Whispered Back, This Is How You've Always Lived.)

I Think A Lot Of Snowflakes Are Alike...and I Think A Lot Of People Are Alike Too.