I Can't Read Or Sleep. Without Hope

Maybe Other People's Ideas Of Us Are Truer Than Our Own.

Something In Me Vibrates To A Dusky, Dreamy Smell Of Dying Moons And Shadows.

She Quietly Expected Great Things To Happen To Her, And No Doubt That’s One Of The Reasons Why They Did.

Mr. Fitzgerald-i Believe That Is How He Spells His Name-seems To Believe That Plagiarism Begins At Home.

We Walked At Night Towards A Cafe Blooming With Japanese Lanterns And I Followed Your White Shoes Gleaming Like Radium In The Damp Darkness. Rising Off The Water, Lights Flickered An Invitation Far Enough Away To Be Interpreted As We Liked; To Shimmer Glamourously Behind The Silhouette Of Retrospective Good Times When We Still Believed In Summer Hotels And The Philosophies Of Popular Songs.