I Love Movies, I Love

I Don't Have Any Regrets, Really, Except That One. I Wanted To Write About You, About Us, Really. Do You Know What I Mean? I Wanted To Write About Everything, The Life We're Having And The Lives We Might Have Had. I Wanted To Write About All The Ways We Might Have Died.

You Can't Find Peace By Avoiding Life.

There Is Still That Singular Perfection, And It's Perfect In Part Because It Seemed, At The Time, So Clearly To Promise More.

Like The Morning You Walked Out Of That Old House, When You Were Eighteen And I Was, Well, I Had Just Turned Nineteen, Hadn't I? I Was A Nineteen-year-old And I Was In Love With Louis And I Was In Love With You, And I Thought I Had Never Seen Anything So Beautiful As The Sight Of You Walking Out A Glass Door In The Early Morning, Still Sleepy, In Your Underwear. Isn't It Strange?

There Is A Beauty In The World, Though It's Harsher Than We Expect It To Be.