Something about telling that story made my gut grow back together." What?" Oh, nothing. Just thinking out loud." That's who you really like. The people you can think out loud in front of." The people who've been in your secret hiding places." The people you bite your thumb in front of." Hi." Hi." ..." ..." Wow. My first Lindsey." My second Colin." That was fun. Let's try it again." Sold." ..." ..." ...".

If people could see me the way I see myself - if they could live in my memories - would anyone love me?

Like many people, I feel like celebrating. Remember this feeling. It is human, and can help us understand when others express bloodlust.

The world went on, as it does, without my full participation, and I only woke up from the reverie when someone said my name.

The food was so good that with each passing course, our conversation devolved further into fragmented celebrations of its deliciousness: 'I want this dragon carrot risotto to become a person so I can take it to Las Vegas and marry it.

I write about broken people who need other people in order to go on. But those are the only kind of people I know to exist. We are all broken.

The marks humans leave are too often scars.