Today's Baudelaires Are Hip-hop Artists.

This Evening I Begin A Notebook. If Anyone Reads This, I Trust They Will Forgive My Overuse Of "i". I Can't Stop It. I'm Writing This.

[t]hat I Could Find Company And Consolation And Hope In An Object Pulled Almost At Random From A Bookshelf--felt Akin To An Instance Of Religious Grace.

Robin Turned And Looked Straight Into Her. "what's Life For?" "i Don't Know." "i Don't Either. But I Don't Think It's About Winning.

Once There Are Good Sentences On The Page, I Can Feel A Loyalty To Them And Start Following Their Logic, And Take Refuge From Myself.

Then She Waited, With Parted Lips And A Saucy Challenge In Her Eyes, To See How Her Presence -- The Drama Of Being Her -- Was Registering. In The Way Of Such Chicks, She Seemed Convinced Of The Originality Of Her Provocation.