Maybe Any Love We Ever Have Is

His Own Voice Was Older Than He Was. Ancient, Unearthed From Some Mystical Subterranean Place...the Voice Seemed To Make His Whole Body Ache. Maybe It Made Him Bleed Inside. I Wondered If It Hurt, If It Burned In His Throat.

What Shall We Do, All Of Us? All Of Us Oassionate Girls Who Fear Crushing The Boys We Love With Our Mouths Like Caverns Of Teeth, Our Mushrooming Brains, Our Watermelon Hearts?

Weetzie Wished She Could Shake Blue Glitter Around All Of Them - Keeping Them Sparkling And Safe.

Everything Was Fine, But Weetzie Wanted A Baby. “how Could You Want One?” My Secret Agent Lover Man Said. “there Are Way Too Many Babies. And Diseases. And Nuclear Accidents. And Crazy Psychos. We Cant Have A Baby,” He Said.

Stories Are Like Genies...they Can Carry Us Into And Though Our Sorrows. Sometimes They Burn, Sometimes They Dance, Sometimes They Weep, Sometimes They Sing. Like Genies, Everyone Has One. Like Genies, Sometimes We Forget That We Do. Our Stories Can Set Us Free...when We Set Them Free.