She's No Beauty, Mate

The Glow Dies Down, And She's Standing At The End Of My Bed--the One Who's Been Following Me Around Leaving Feather Messages. I Take In The Torn Fishnets, Plaid Mini-kilt, Shiny, Riveted Breastplate With Leather Straps At The Sides And A Worn Great Temolo Decal Near The Left Shoulder. Her Wings Are A Crazy Black-and-white-checkered Pattern, Like They've Been Spray-painted At A Body Shop To Look Like Hipster Sneakers.

The Night's Chilly Breath Tickles Up My Neck And Finds My Ear, Whispering Secrets Only The Wind Knows.

Travel Opens Your Mind As Few Other Things Do. It Is Its Own Form Of Hypnotism, And I Am Forever Under Its Spell

She Hadn’t Meant To Get Trapped In A Conversation. That Was The Trouble With Offering Help To Old People.

You Don't Know Me, Dude," He Says, Not Smiling This Time. Gonzo Examines His Cards, Prepping For His Next Move. "people Always Think That They Know Other People, But They Don't. Not Really. I Mean, Maybe They Know Things About Them, Like They Won't Eat Doughnuts Or They Like Action Movies Or Whatever. But They Don't Know What Their Friends Do In Their Rooms Alone At Night Or What Happened To Them When They Were Kids Or If They Feel ****ed Up For No Reason At All.