The World Is Alive And No Living

Literature + Illness = Illness

Nothing Good Ever Comes Of Love. What Comes Of Love Is Always Something Better

Even On The Poorest Streets People Could Be Heard Laughing. Some Of These Streets Were Completely Dark, Like Black Holes, And The Laughter That Came From Who Knows Where Was The Only Sign, The Only Beacon That Kept Residents And Strangers From Getting Lost.

Dreams Fade With Morning Light, Never A Morn For Thee, Dreamer Of Dreams, Goodnight.

Only In Chaos Are We Conceivable.