I can’t seem to make myself care about anything to the right or left of the present.

Music? Music is life! It’s physical emotion - you can touch it! It’s neon ecto-energy sucked out of spirits and switched into sound waves for your ears to swallow. Are you telling me, what, that it’s boring? You don’t have time for it?

Are my words ever actually audible, or do they just echo in my head while people stare at me, waiting?

I can feel it... the chance to start over, to live right, to love right, to burn up in a fiery cloud and never again be buried in the mud.

You might say that death has relaxed me.

I've always been interested in writing from the perspective of an outsider.

What wonderful thing didn't start out scary?