Honey, No Offense, But Sometimes I Think

I'm Moving To Nevada. Either There Or Kill Myself.

Ralph Also Took Some Classes In Philosophy And Literature And Felt Himself On The Brink Of Some Kind Of Huge Discovery About Himself. But It Never Came.

Dreams, You Know, Are What You Wake Up From.

Nights Without Beginning That Had No End. Talking About A Past As If It'd Really Happened. Telling Themselves That This Time Next Year, This Time Next Year, Things Were Going To Be Different.

If We're Lucky, Writer And Reader Alike, We'll Finish The Last Line Or Two Of A Short Story And Then Just Sit For A Minute, Quietly. Ideally, We'll Ponder What We've Just Written Or Read; Maybe Our Hearts Or Intellects Will Have Been Moved Off The Peg Just A Little From Where They Were Before. Our Body Temperature Will Have Gone Up, Or Down, By A Degree. Then, Breathing Evenly And Steadily Once More, We'll Collect Ourselves, Writers And Readers Alike, Get Up, "created Of Warm Blood And Nerves" As A Chekhov Character Puts It, And Go On To The Next Thing: Life. Always Life.