Who knew that listening to a guy sleep could be so much deeper than sleeping with a guy.

Writers are damned liars. Every single one of them.

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

Because in a small dark room, a broken child lies on a filthy bed and stares up at a high window. He waits for me, too. And I—I who have failed at everything and have failed everyone—I must not, I cannot, I will not fail him.

Because just for a few seconds, someone else hurts, too. For just a few seconds, I'm not alone.

Namaste. It was a Nepalese greeting. It meant: The light within me bows to the light within you.

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