I Hid My Underwear Beneath A Parked

For Me, The Past Is Dead. Can't Go Back.

To Write About A Place, You Have To Live There.

I Don't Really Know The Person Who Wrote The Things I Wrote. I Kind Of Know Him, But I Change So Much All The Time That It's Like I Start Fresh Over And Over And Over And Over. Writing-wise And Life-wise.

I Live For Coincidences. They Briefly Give To Me The Illusion Or The Hope That There's A Pattern To My Life, And If There's A Pattern, Then Maybe I'm Moving Toward Some Kind Of Destiny Where It's All Explained.

Maybe My Work Isn't A Cry For Help. It May Just Be A Baby's Need To Cry Or A Dog's Need To Bark. You Know, Barks That Seem Connected To Phantom Noises And Cries That Just Come; Though A Baby's Cries Are Usually Efficient - Something Is Bothering Them. Anyway, I Think Giving Money Is A Sign Of Love. If You Truly Want To Help Someone, A Lot Of Times Giving Them Money Is The Best Thing You Can Do.