I hate this feeling. Like I'm here, but I'm not. Like someone cares. But they don't. Like I belong somewhere else, anywhere but here, and escape lies just past that snowy window, cool and crisp as the February air.

It is hard to believe that something that seems so permanent was once so different. Change. I guess that really is one thing you can count on.

I'd like to cry now. Don't know how.

So when he asked about getting high, I didn't think, I agreed. We smoked some good California green. Took three tries to put me in the place he said I should be.

I never actually plan sequels. They demand to be done.

Think of how they must have loved when all they had was each other.

Fake Is that what you are if you choose to improve the basic not perfect you?