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I will love you if I never see you again, and I will love you if I see you every Tuesday.

It was sometime in October, she had long ago lost track of all the days and it really didn’t matter because one was like another and there were no nights to separate them because she never slept anymore.

Tell me how your bones broke together and how you took their dust and sloppily flew it up your rounded nose because maybe you couldn’t quite fully let go of yourself. And tell me how high you got off on your own splintering, how it made you believe, through spiraling eyes and cough-syrup marinated brain, that this, right here, was something great.

Too sugary too angry too perverse – the sick sweet rotting of the human heart.

Too sugary too angry too perverse – the sick sweet rotting of the human heart.

Too sugary too angry too perverse – the sick sweet rotting of the human heart.

“I don’t believe in sexuality, when I fall in love I fall in love with the person, not with their crotch.”

Art, I think, is a question mark. I don’t think it should ever be an answer.

I mean, that’s the sad fact of finding out ignorance is bliss, when you find out that you can’t change the world. I can barely change my pants.

Give me two hours a day of activity, and I’ll take the other twenty-two in dreams.

What horrifies me most is the idea of being useless: well-educated, brilliantly promising, and fading out into an indifferent middle age.

Please don’t expect me to always be good and kind and loving. There are times when I will be cold and thoughtless and hard to understand.