Picture anybody growing up so stupid he didn't know that hope is just another phase you'll grow out of.

Besides, hysteria is only possible with an audience.

We hear the ambient noise of children singing. We hear lions and tigers roar. Hyenas laugh. Some jungle bird or howler monkey declares its existence, screeching a maniac's gibberish. Our entire world, always doing battle against the silence and obscurity of death.

No, Miss Wright didn't want to meet her kid. To her, that relationship was just as important, just as ideal and impossible as it would be to the child. She'd expect that young man to be perfect, smart, and talented, everything to compensate for all the mistakes that she'd made. The whole wasted, unhappy mess of her life.

We opened our hearts. Hear me, heal me, save me, believe me.

Some little part of themselves for someone in the future to discover. Maybe a thought. We were here. We built this. A reminder.

Writing is like sex, if it's difficult you're not doing it right.