I Eat Broccoli. I Think About The

You Made Her Apologize For Sickness. For Her Courage. You Made Her Feel Sorry For Dying.

Whispering Makes A Narrow Place Narrower.

Then It Was This Big Thing. She Was Like, 'i Never Want To See You Again', And I Was Like, 'fine. Okay? Fine. Then Get Some Special Goggles.

I Eat Broccoli. I Think About The Plot. I Pace In Circles For Hours, Counter-clockwise, Listening To Music. I Try To Think Of One Detail In The Scene I'm About To Write That I'm Really Excited About Writing. Until I Can Come Up With That One Detail, I Pace.

Perhaps His Gloom Was Due To His Profession, That He Lived Among Fallen Empires, And In Reading These Languages That Had Not Been Spoken By The Common Man In Centuries, He Had All About Him The Ruin Of Language, Evidence Of Toppled Suburbs, Grass Growing Among The Mosaics, And Voices That Had Been Choked With Poison, Iron, Age, Or Ash.