Everything You See, You Might Be Seeing

My "heart". Does That Pitiful Organ Still Represent Anything? It Lies Motionless In My Chest, Pumping No Blood, Serving No Purpose, And Yet My Feelings Still Seem To Originate Inside Its Cold Walls. My Muted Sadness, My Vague Longing, My Rare Flickers Of Joy. They Pool In The Center Of My Chest And Seep Out Of There, Diluted And Faint, But Real.

Soft Flesh Is Eaten By Hard Teeth.

Once You've Arrived At The End Of The World, It Hardly Matters Which Route You Took.

I've Always Been Interested In Writing From The Perspective Of An Outsider.

Here We Are On The Road. We Must Be Going Somewhere.