And Robespierre, the Incorruptible, who loved us so much he cut off our heads so we would not be troubled by too many thoughts.

I could almost hear the characters inside, murmuring and jostling, impatient for me to open the cover and let them out.

I'm wishing he could see that music lives. Forever. That it's stronger than death. Stronger than time. And that its strength holds you together when nothing else can.

She's got a big belt around her hips. It has a shiny buckle with PRADA on it, which is Italian for insecure.

Airports should all belong to the same country. The country of Crappacia. Or Bleakovania. Or Suckitan.

The guitar's still around me. I slip it off and put it down. I want to feel him. To feel his breath on my neck. The warmth of his skin. To feel something other than sadness. Hold me, I tell him silently. Hold me here. To this place. This life. Make me want you. Want this. Want something. Please

He's wearing boots, a kilt, and a long-sleeve tee. No coat, even though it's December. Beautiful people don't need coats. They've got their auras to keep them warm.