Let's Just Say, The American School Of

My Worst Is All Out In The Open. It Makes It Necessary For People To Tell You About Themselves.

In The End I Would Always Pull Up With A Sense Of Glory, That Loving Is The Strong Side. It's Feeble To Be An Object. What's The Point Of Being Loved In Return, I'd Ask Myself.

Sometimes People Go Off In A Slightly Different Direction Of Wanting To Be Different, Of Wanting To Be Special, Of Wanting To Be More, And I Think That Those People Are Often - Not Always, But Often - Genuinely Different In Some Way. Perhaps Their Gender Orientation Is Not Acceptable Or Popular, Not The Norm. Or, Their Physical Design Is Literally, In Some Way, Setting Them Apart. Or, In Many Cases, They Feel The Burden Of Their Ordinariness So Dreadfully That They Strive To Find Some Way Of Being Unique. I Think That Can Be A Very Positive Thing, But It Also Can Be Negative, Destructive.

There Are Parts Of Texas Where A Fly Lives Ten Thousand Years And A Man Can't Die Soon Enough. Time Gets Strange There From Too Much Sky, Too Many Miles From Crack To Crease In The Flat Surface Of The Land.

Pretty Things Will Swarm You Like That, Like Your Heart Was A Hive Of Electric Bees.