It’s the leftover humans. The survivors. They’re the ones I can’t stand to look at, although on many occasions I still fail. I deliberately seek out the colors to keep my mind off them, but now and then, I witness the ones who are left behind, crumbling among the jigsaw puzzle of realization, despair, and surprises. They have punctured hearts. They have beaten lungs. Which in turn brings me to the subject I am telling you about tonight, or today, or whatever the hour and color. It’s the story of one of those perpetual survivors –an expert at being left behind.

Mystery bores me. It chores me. I know what happens and so do you. It's the machinations that wheel us there that aggravate, perplex, interest, and astound me.

An eleven-year-old girl is many things, but she is not stupid.

She was one if the few souls that made me wonder what's it to live.

...and the night is so deep and dark that I wonder if the sun will ever come up.

He prefers not to ruin things with any more questions. What it is is what it is.

Only in today's sick society can a man be persecuted for reading too many books.