Behind the corpse in the reservoir,
behind the ghost on the links,
behind the lady who dances
and the man who madly drinks,
under the look of fatigue
the attack of migraine and the sigh
there is always another story,
there is more than meets the eye.

Love is the heat of his breath on my neck when he sleeps, waking up with the air burst open and his long fingers twined in my hair; wanting the shadows below his lips and eyes to flicker as he trembles, trembles with that early morning smile, still thick and golden from a night of restlessness; blanket-trenches carved across his cheeks in dirty red slices like the contours of a battlefield.

In the beginning the Universe was created. This has made a lot of people very angry and is widely regarded as a bad move.

Sometimes, you have to step outside of the person you’ve been and remember the person you were meant to be. The person you want to be. The person you are.

I want a life that sizzles and pops and makes me laugh out loud. And I don’t want to get to the end, or to tomorrow, even, and realize that my life is a collection of meetings and pop cans and errands and receipts and dirty dishes. I want to eat cold tangerines and sing out loud in the car with the windows open and wear pink shoes and stay up all night laughing and paint my walls the exact color of the sky right now. I want to sleep hard on clean white sheets and throw parties and eat ripe tomatoes and read books so good they make me jump up and down, and I want everyday to make God belly laugh, glad that he gave life to someone who loves the gift.