Writing A Book Is Like Masturbation, And

We Burn So Hard, But We Shed So Little Light; It Makes Us Crazy And Sad.

The Monsters Act Out Our Rage. They Act On Their Worst Impulses, Which Is Appealing To A Certain Part Of Us. They Get Punished For It, But We've Enjoyed The Spectacle Of Their Liberation.

Words Are Sexier Than Flesh.

No Tears, Please. It's A Waste Of Good Suffering.

We’re Too Much Ourselves. Afraid Of Letting Go Of What We Are, In Case We Are Nothing, And Holding On So Tight, We Lose Everything Else.