Don't write nude, write naked, raw. Write without anesthesia. Write without religion. Don't write like you make love, write like youfuck.

I'm curious about what a normal life might look like though I have no interest in living one.

I like you best when you're really weird. I like you always.

work. pretend. eat. pretend. run. pretend. smile. pretend. fuck. pretend. reason. pretend. write. pretend. fake. pretend. falter. pretend.

It seems like lugubrious should mean something more salubrious and loquacious should mean something a hell of a lot sexier than what it is.

He goes to hell but he always returns.

I've set the table with tiny crystal ashtrays at each setting. No one smokes, though we might be inspired if we're feeling very Bette Davis.

It's time you wrapped up the procrastination gig and started suffering angst and self-doubt over your incomplete, nearly delinquent project.

Most of my friends are calm and sane. Most of my idols are batshit crazy.

Be gentle with me as you point out my flaws. It's not as if I point and laugh at your dangling... participle.

The year I didn't cut my hair. The year I didn't smooth my face. The year I chose beach over treadmill, words over money, love over refuge.

Sleepless, feverish & filthy, they started the weekend with their usual fiery flair. The sullen, the chaste & the sober would not survive.

Pretending is not close enough.

He wrote about her less often than he dreamed of her but lied about both, just like when he hid his shiny disco pants from his housekeeper.

He pulled a palette from the photograph of her in the sun. He knew her blue was a lucky blue so he painted it on door after door after door.

I slice each grape precisely in half and dream of words I am not writing.

He spoke in small, spare sentences. He was more poignant than he knew or probably wanted to be.

He woke from dreams of blue women pulsing through tubes. He leaned to her: every woman was you and every one of you danced through my veins.

Once he realized he had no choice in the matter, he conceded. In that moment there was exhaled balance, harmony and sweet, sweet silence.

Every single line he almost wrote, every half-stanza, was about the woman who might have been his if he'd allowed himself finish the verse.