It's Like A Squid In

I Eat Broccoli. I Think About The Plot. I Pace In Circles For Hours, Counter-clockwise, Listening To Music. I Try To Think Of One Detail In The Scene I'm About To Write That I'm Really Excited About Writing. Until I Can Come Up With That One Detail, I Pace.

Teens Are Not Like The Weird, Dumb Dwarves You Have Around Your House. They Are Actually You When You Were Younger.

We Americans Are Interested Only In The Consumption Of Our Products. We Have No Interest In How They Are Produced, Or What Happens To Them Once We Discard Them, Once We Throw Them Away.

People Talk About The Beauty Of The Spring, But I Can't See It. The Trees Are Brown And Bare, Slimy With Rain. Some Are Crawling With New Purple Hairs. And The Buds Are Bulging Like Tumorous Acne, And I Can Tell That Something Wet, And Soft, And Cold, And Misshapen Is About To Be Born. And I Am Turning Into A Vampire.

I Miss That Time. The Cities Back Then, Just After The Forests Died, Were Full Of Wonders, And You'd Stumble On Them--these Princes Of The Air On Common Rooftops--the Rivers That Burst Through The City Streets So They Ran Like Canals--the Rabbits In Parking Garages--the Deer Foaling, Nestled In Dumpsters Like A Nativity.