One little ripple started today could create a typhoon fifteen years from now.

That's what I love about poetry. The more abstract, the better. The stuff where you're not sure what the poet's talking about. You may have an idea, but you can't be sure. Not a hundred percent. Each word, specifically chosen, could have a million different meanings.

They were like two magnets who couldn't decide whether to attract or repel.

Josh will begin disappearing into a future where the only place he and I remain friends is on the Internet.

Imagine ten or tweleve orange chairs arrainged in a circle, with the happy woen from the flyer sitting at opposite ends. Only problem was, from day one, they weren't happy. Someone, whoever made that flyer, must have digitally turned their frowns upside down. They wrote about death. About the evilness of men. About the destruction of-and I quote- "the greenish, bluish orb with wisps of white." Seriously, that's how they descibed it. They went on to call Earth a knocked-up gaseous alien needing an abortion.

That's why you did it. You wanted your world to collapse around you. You wanted everything to get as dark as possible.

As a writer, my only responsibility is to tell a compelling story.