I Don’t Belong To Anyone. I Make

Metaphors. This Was The Cost Of Making Out With An Artist.

Rose Once Told Me About This Poem She’d Read. There Was This Line, ‘if Your Eyes Weren’t Open, You Wouldn’t Know The Difference Between Dreaming And Waking.’ You Know What I’m Afraid Of? That Someday, Even With My Eyes Open, I Still Won’t Know.

Sydney Had Been Horrified To Discover My Home Library Consisted Of A Bartending Dictionary And An Old Copy Of Esquire, And At Her Pleading, I'd Promised To Read Something More Substantial. I Was Trying To Think Deep Thoughts As I Read Gatsby, But Mostly I Wanted To Throw Some Parties.

We’re Suckers For This, Sydney. Men. You’ve Got Me Completely Helpless Right Now. You’re So Beautiful And Alluring, And We Guys Can’t Help Ourselves. We Fight Wars For You, Cajole You . . . And You Put Up With Us. We Have It Easy Here In Bed.” She Turned My Face Toward Hers. “this Wasn’t Exactly Difficult For Me.” “but We Still Have It Easy. You’re The Strength, The Pillars . . . Our Defenders, Our Children’s Defenders.

Brayden Met My Eyes. His Were Hazel, Almost Like Eddie’s But With A Little Green. Not As Much Green As Adrian’s, Of Course. No One’s Eyes Were That Amazingly Green.