Writing Does Not Resurrect. It Buries.

Most Loves Don't Last. But Some Do.

We Did A Few Things Worth Remembering, And I Wish For Someone To Remember Them.

Even Then, It Hurt. The Pain Was Always There, Pulling Me Inside Of Myself, Demanding To Be Felt. It Always Felt Like I Was Waking Up From The Pain When Something In The World Outside Of Me Suddenly Required My Comment Or Attention.

Everything's Uglier Close Up," She Said. "not You," I Answered.

It Turns Out That, Somehow, There Are A Tremendous Number Of Things To Be Optimistic About.