I Applied For The University

To Have Had Fame, Even Very Minor Fame, And To Have Lost It, Got Older And Maybe Put On A Little Weight Is A Kind Of Living Death.

Sorry' He Said. 'no, I'm Sorry.' 'what Are You Sorry For?' 'rattling On Like A Mad Old Cow. I'm Sorry, I'm Tired, Bad Day, And I'm Sorry For Being So...boring.' 'you're Not That Boring.' 'i Am, Dex. God, I Swear I Bore Myself.' 'well, You Don't Bore Me.' He Took Her Hand In His. 'you Could Never Bore Me. You're One In A Million, Em.

And Then Some Days You Wake Up And Everything's Perfect

Cuddling Was For Great Aunts And Teddy Bears. Cuddling Gave Him Cramp.

The True Writer, The Born Writer, Will Scribble Words On Scraps Of Litter, The Back Of A Bus Tickets, On The Wall Of A Cell.