The Average Attention Span Of

It's Not That He Lacked Poetry. But His Poetry Was Of The Body, Not The Mind. He Spoke It In The Way He Moved, The Way He Held A Hammer, Rowed A Boat, Built A Fire. I, On The Other Hand, Was Like A Brain In A Box, A Beating Heart In A Coal Scuttle.

I Was Pretty Far Gone, But Not So Far Gone That I Thought Anyone With Half A Toehold In Reality Would Think What We Were Doing Was A Good Idea.

I Guess There Was A War Going On Somewhere In The World That Night But It Wasn't One That Could Touch Us.

The Facts Of His Existence Are Plain. I Know That He Will Never Silence Those Unspeakable Voices. He Heard How People Killed, And How They Died And Their Voices Infected Him, Coursed Through His Body, Poisoned Him. He Didn't Know How To Turn Off The Noise, Or Turn The Hate Back Out Onto The World Like The Rest Of Us. He Turned It On Himself. You Could See That From The Scars On Him.

I've Noticed That The Magic Getting Along With Someone Isn't Really Magic. If You Break It Down, You Can See How It Happens. You Say Something A Bit Off-center And See If They React. If They Get It, They Push It A Bit Further. Then It's Your Turn Again. And Theirs. And So On, Until It's Banter. Once It's Banter, It's Friendship.