Pages from my scrapbook.

Left:
"It's a mystery to everyone," her, her passion for the poetry and mystery cried behind dark glasses, smile on his face. promised each other that if they wanted, you still want what you want. Do you know what you want?

"He made me laugh, a matter of luck or fate. get the electricity by plugging directly into the socket. 6-year-old boy describes his strange idea of what is "normal." Spoons were normal, the definition of "good morning." No, I'm not suggesting hormones and ignorance, dioxide we breathe out, kiss, and play never missing a single day. in other words, spoons shaped by life experience.

"Why are people in fairy tales always falling in love with frogs?" she asks.

Right:

"I needed to be alone," the night he died. A nag is a broken-down horse, wife, or child looked the same. Crying all the time. That's not what happens. You become crazy while writing with broken china and putting on perfectly starched pants, the strongest boys become the leaders of the playground, reuse aluminum foil, go on to make all the money. "People often ask what drives me."

"Now I can't describe what I am as lonely. There's enough yes in maybe to be wearing its tail to the parlor floor. A big angry mess on your hands, hang on to that loft-for-one.

"I thought he was smart and funny." They met in the early sixties, cohabiting problematic, the phenomenal indie tour de force, the old toothpaste tube, and above all, contempt.

Exposed. Because they look too open to the world.