That's The Problem With Having

Every Single Answer Starts With The Phrase 'i Don't Know.' But Most Of The Time She Does Know, If I Give Her The Time And The Space In Which To Answer.

But Isn't This A Dance? Isn't All Of This A Dance? Isn't That What We Do With Words? Isn't That What We Do When We Talk, When We Spar, When We Make Plans Or Leave It To Chance? Some Of It's Choreographed. Some Of The Steps Have Been Done For Ages. And The Rest -- The Rest Is Spontaneous. The Rest Has To Be Decided On The Floor, In The Moment, Before The Music Ends.

Me: You Know What Sucks About Love? O.w.g.: What? Me: That It's So Tied To The Truth.

And Yes, Holden Would Keep Those Kids From Falling Off The Cliff, But Who Wouldn't? Does She Think I Would Just Fold My Arms Or Give Them A Pat On The Back Before They Sailed Headfirst To The Ground? We Are All Catchers, And It's Sad That She Doesn't See It. Instead She Sees The Phoniness, She Deplores The World Even After I Point Out That I Am In It.

Breathing Is Hard. When You Cry So Much, It Makes You Realize That Breathing Is Hard.