So many humans. So many colors.

You can kill a man with those words. No gun. No bullets. Just words and a girl.

The dilemma, of course, is that such people save their most important words for after, when the surrounding humans are unlucky enough to find them.

Sometimes I think my papa is an accordion. When he looks at me and smiles and breathes, I hear the notes.

She could smell the pages. She could almost taste the words as they stacked up around her.

And then there's the sickness I feel from looking at legs I can't touch, or at lips that don't smile at me. Or hips that don't reach for me. And hearts that don't beat for me.

That's typically what writers do; we just sit around complaining most of the time. And the better things are going, the more they complain.