I Believed Him. I Was Not Stupid.

I Want To Talk About God In A Literary Way. But I Think I Would Have A Very Hard Time Praying To God.

I Realized That Your Mother Couldn't See The Emptiness, She Couldn't See Anything...all Of The Words I'd Written To Her Over All Of Those Years, Had I Never Said Anything To Hear At All?

[she] Always Knew He Was A Fiction But Believed In Him Anyway.

I Said, 'i Need To Know How He Died.' He Flipped Back And Pointed At, 'why?' So I Can Stop Inventing How He Died. I'm Always Inventing.

To Remember My Values, I Need To Lose Certain Tastes And Find Other Handles For The Memories That They Once Helped Me Carry.