The Best Thing That Can Happen To

The Ornament Of Beauty, Shakespeare Wrote, Is Suspect. And He Was Right. But Beauty Itself, Unadorned And Unaffected, Is Sacred, I Think, Worthy Of Our Awe And Our Loyalty.

In Greek Tragedy, They Fall From Great Heights. In Noir, They Fall From The Curb.

Grief, I Swear To God, Doesn't Live In The Heart. It Lives In The Senses. And Sometimes, All I Want To Do Is Cut Off My Nose So I Can't Smell Her, Hack My Fingers Off At The Joint.

We Were Supposed To Grow Old Together, Dolores. Have Kids. Take Walks Under Old Trees. I Wanted To Watch The Lines Etch Themselves Into Your Flesh And Know When Each And Every One Of Them Appeared. Die Together.

The World Does Not Have Tidy Endings. The World Does Not Have Neat Connections. It Is Not Filled With Epiphanies That Work Perfectly At The Moment That You Need Them.