Misdirection Is One Of My Strengths.

I Binge Write. I Think It's Because I Started Seriously Writing By Participating In National Novel Writing Month, An Online-based Challenge To Write 50,000 Words In 30 Days.

People Don’t Pay Much Attention To Anything Unless You Give Them Reason To

Sting Told Me If I Love Somebody I Should Set Them Free. I Doubt Sting Ever Loved Anyone With Wings. If He Did He Might Rethink Such A Stupid Sentiment. I Suppose The Point Is To Wait For Your Love To Come Back To You Voluntarily. I Wonder If There’s A Difference Between Setting Something Free And Letting It Go? I Probably Did It Wrong. I Should Stop Taking Advice From My Radio. I Worry That You’re Lost. I Keep A Heart-shaped Cage Unlocked For You, Out On The Street Where It Can Easily Be Seen. So If One Day You Return At Least You’ll Have A Place To Stay.

The Funeral Is A Quiet One, Despite The Number Of Mourners Present. There Are No Sobs Or Flailing Handkerchiefs. There Is A Smattering Of Color Amongst The Sea Of Traditional Black. Even The Light Rain Cannot Push It Down Into The Realms Of Despair. It Rests Instead In A Space Of Thoughtful Melancholy.

The Boy Spends Most Of His Time Reading. And Writing, Of Course. He Copies Out Sections Of Books, Writes Out Words And Symbols He Does Not Understand At First But That Become Intimately Familiar Beneath His Ink-stained Fingers, Formed Again And Again In Increasingly Steady Lines.