One Of The Marks Of A Life

Being A Stranger Was Like Being Dead, And Brought To Mind How, In A Book He Had Read That Most Folks Misunderstood One Common State: The Flip Side Of Love Is Indifference, Not Hate.

I Have So Little Control Over The Act Of Writing That It's All I Can Do To Remain Conscious.

In My Brief Glimpse Of What Is To Come I Realize How Little I Care To Witness It. I Have Seen The Future And I'm Fairly Relieved To Say, It Looks Nothing Like Me.

I Am No Fun At All. In Fact, I Am Anti-fun. Not As In Anti-violence, But As In Anti-matter. I Am Not So Much Against Fun - Although I Suppose I Kind Of Am - As I Am The Opposite Of Fun. I Suck The Fun Out Of A Room. Or Perhaps I'm Just A Different Kind Of Fun; The Kind That Leaves On Bereft Of Hope; The Kind Of Fun That Ends In Tears.

You Can't Win All The Contests And Then Lose At One Contest And Say, 'why Am I Not Winning This Contest As Well?' It's Random. So Truthfully, Again, Do I Wish It Weren't Me? Absolutely. I Still Can't Make That Logistic Jump To Thinking There's A Reason Why It Shouldn't Be Me.