I only want to write. And there's no college for that except life.
How can a young man like to wear a beard?
I have really sinned. I am going to pause now, and sit here on the mound repenting in deepest shame.
Only half a page left now. Shall I fill it with 'I love you, I love you'-- like father's page of cats on the mat? No. Even a broken heart doesn't warrant a waste of good paper.
I was wandering around as usual, in my unpleasantly populated sub-conscious.
Oh, wise young judge.