Library-denigrators, Pay Heed:suggesting That The Internet Is

The Wind Always Brings Us Back To The Same Wall

I Can Write Absolutely Anywhere. All I Need Is A Laptop.

In My Dreams I Gorge On Chocolates, I Roll In Chocolates, And Their Texture Is Not Brittle But Soft As Flesh, Like A Thousand Mouths On My Body, Devouring Me In Fluttering Small Bites. To Die Beneath Their Tender Gluttony Seems The Culmination Of Every Temptation I Have Ever Known.

I'd Rather Be A Freak Than A Clone.

Death Should Be A Celebration. Like A Birthday. I Want To Go Up Like A Rocket When My Time Comes, And Fall Down In A Cloud Of Stars, And Hear Everyone Go: Ahh!