homeboy wore combat boots to the beach

Stars are not small or gentle. They are writhing and dying and burning. They are not here to be pretty. I am trying to learn from them.

“We tell ourselves stories in order to live…We look for the sermon in the suicide, for the social or moral lesson in the murder of five. We interpret what we see, select the most workable of the multiple choices. We live entirely, especially if we are writers, by the imposition of a narrative line upon disparate images, by the “ideas” with which we have learned to freeze the shifting phantasmagoria which is our actual experience.”

you can be something else, something distant, sharp as the stars—

CLEOPATRA : Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have Immortal longings in me.