The Word Rattled In My Head Like

Who Can Judge Another Man's Suffering?

The Writer Is Both A Sadist And A Masochist. We Create People We Love, And Then We Torture Them. The More We Love Them, And The More Cleverly We Torture Them Along The Lines Of Their Greatest Vulnerability And Fear, The Better The Story. Sometimes We Try To Protect Them From Getting Booboos That Are Too Big. Don’t. This Is Your Protagonist, Not Your Kid.

I Wanted To Hear What She Was Saying. I Wanted To Smell That Burnt Midnight Again, I Wanted To Feel That Wind. It Was A Secret Wanting, Like A Song I Couldn't Stop Humming, Or Loving Someone I Could Never Have. No Matter Where I Went, My Compass Pointed West. I Would Always Know What Time It Was In California.

How Can I Shed Tears For A Man I Should Never Have Allowed To Touch Me In Any Way?

Although She Was Giddy With Exhaustion, Sleep Was A Lover Who Refused To Be Touched.