When I'm working on something, I proceed as if no one else will ever read it.
...it's closeness that does you in. Never get too close to people, son.
It’s like the grief has been covered over with some kind of blanket. It’s still there, but the sharpest edges are .. muffled, sort of. Then, ever now and then, I lift the corner of the blanket just to check, and .. whoa! Like a knife! I’m not sure that will ever change.
I hated childhood, and spent it sitting behind a book waiting for adulthood to arrive.
I've never quite believed that one chance is all I get
I'm falling into disrepair