Tired, But Not The Kind Of Tired

I Remember How, At First, I Had Felt The Tension In His Lips, As If He Was Trying To Make A Barrier Between Us - Then They Had Relaxed, Parted Slightly. And That's When I Had Known He Wanted To Kiss Me, Wanted To Give In. That Little Parting Of The Lips, The Little Sigh That Came Out... I Would Hear That Sigh Forever. That Little, Little Sound When The Whole World Seemed To Open Up.

I Could Envision It All To Clearly: Stuart Or Debbie Finding The Dented Door Off Its Hinges, Lying In The Snow. "she Came In, Ravaged The Boy, Stole Plastic Bags, And Ripped Off The Door In Her Escape," The Police Would Say In The Apb. "probably Making Her Way To Bust Her Parents Out Of Jail.

I've Heard People On Panels Say, 'you Must Have A Web Site. You Need To Tweet. Repeat The Title Of Your Book Constantly,' And I Just Want To Say, 'shut Up. Everything You're Saying Is Wrong.' People Will Know Instantly If Your Only Motivation For Tweeting Is To Sell Books.

Irony Is The Word I Forget The Meaning Of Immediately After I Look It Up, But I Kind Of Feel Like I Live In A Constant State Of It.

Boo: "go Talk To Her." Callum: "about What?" Boo: "anything." Callum: "you Want Me To Walk Up To Her And Say, 'are You A Ghost?'" Boo: "i Do That." Callum: "i Love It When You Get It Wrong.