No praise, no blame. Just so.

I want life and in all its stupid sticky rawness.

The sports arena Julie calls home is unaccountably large, perhaps one of those dual-event 'super venues' built for an era when the greatest quandary facing the world was where to put all the parties.

I sigh inside, so exhausted by these ugly questions, but when did a monster ever deserve its privacy?

All the shitty stuff people do to themselves... it can all be the same thing, you know? Just a way to drown out your own voice. To kill your memories without having to kill yourself.

The kind of stuff I usually read is a bit more on the literary side, like books that I think are influential in the sense that they're doing pulpy subject matter in a refined way. Like 'The Road' by Cormac McCarthy, I loved that book.

Not so easy, Mr Lennon. Even if you try.