The World, Right Now, Is Only Us.

Trying To Write About Love Is Ultimately Like Trying To Have A Dictionary Represent Life. No Matter How Many Words There Are, There Will Never Be Enough.

That's What It Felt Like - That If I Let A Little Of The Hurt Out, It Would Keep Pouring Out Until I Was A Deflated Balloon Of A Person, With A Big Monster Of Hurt In Front Of Me.

Without You I Wouldn't Have Been Able To Contain The Hate. I Would Have Used It Against Myself. You're The One Who Helped Me Control It. My Mind Spun Out To Other Things. But It Always Came Back To You.

Ted Is Smart And Good-looking, But He Doesn't Use It To Good Effect, Like A Rich Person That Never Gives To Charity.

Why Do We Even Bother? Why Do We Make Ourselves So Open To Such Easy Damage? Is It All Loneliness? Is It All Fear? Or Is It Just To Experience Those Narcotic Moments Of Belonging With Someone Else?