I Was Attempting To Write The Story

But The Thing About A Cry For Help Is That Someone Else Needs To Be Around To Hear It.

His Books Are Kept On Freestanding Shelves Hung At Different Angles On A Sea-green Wall. They Defy Gravity, As Good Books Should.

I Kiss Her And She Finds The Light Switch And Turns It Off, And We're Just Lit In Pepsi-can Colors And It's Like We've Finally Found This Other Kind Of Conversation, This Conversation In Gestures And Pulls And Pushes And Breaths And Grasps And Teases And Glimmers And Rubs And Expectation.

I Am Constantly Torn Between Killing Myself And Killing Everyone Around Me.

Scapegoat, N. I Think Our Top Two Are: 1. Not Enough Coffee. 2. Too Much Coffee.