For Six Months I Couldn't

Help Me Give Up My Addiction To Hope.

Everything Is A Self-portrait. A Diary. Your Whole Drug History’s In A Strand Of Your Hair. Your Fingernails. The Forensic Details. The Lining Of Your Stomach Is A Document. The Calluses On Your Hand Tell All Your Secrets. Your Teeth Give You Away. Your Accent. The Wrinkles Around Your Mouth And Eyes. Everything You Do Shows Your Hand.

Sundays Tend To Be A Day Where Just I Do Nothing But Visit People. It's Kind Of Like Trick-or-treating.

It's Just The Biggest Mistake I Could Think To Make

There Are Worse Things You Can Do To People You Love Than Kill Them.