And I Put The Latte Down On

Because There Is No Glory In Illness. There Is No Meaning To It. There Is No Honor In Dying Of.

I Was Born Into Bolívar's Labyrinth, And So I Must Believe In The Hope Of Rabelais' Great Perhaps.

I Wanted More Time So We Could Fall In Love.

This Is So Much Fun, But I’m So Sleepy. To Be Continued?

I Know He's Been Looking Forward To This--and I Know That I've Been Looking Forward To This. But Now I Have To Stop Looking Forward And Start Looking At Where I Am. It's Hard.