There's Plenty Of Stuff That

People Have Wanted To Narrate Since First We Banged Rocks Together & Wondered About Fire. There’ll Be Tellings As Long As There Are Any Of Us Here, Until The Stars Disappear One By One Like Turned-out Lights.

Scars Are Not Injuries, Tanner Sack. A Scar Is A Healing. After Injury, A Scar Is What Makes You Whole.

I Think There's Something Quite Interesting About The Almost Tragic Quality Of A Lot Of Overwrought Prose, Because It Has A Much More Self-conscious Awareness Of Its Own Failure To Touch The Real.

We Would Never Call Inexplicable Little Insights Hunches, For Fear Of Drawing The Universe's Attention. But They Happened, And You Knew You Had Been In The Proximity Of One That Had Come Through If You Saw A Detective Kiss His Or Her Fingers And Touch His Or Her Chest Where A Pendant To Warsha, Patron Saint Of Inexplicable Inspirations, Would, Theoretically, Hang.

We Speak Now Or I Do, And Others Do. You've Never Spoken Before. You Will. You'll Be Able To Say How The City Is A Pit And A Hill And A Standard And An Animal That Hunts And A Vessel On The Sea And The Sea And How We Are Fish In It, Not Like The Man Who Swims Weekly With Fish But The Fish With Which He Swims, The Water, The Pool. I Love You, You Light Me, Warm Me, You Are Suns. You Have Never Spoken Before.