I can see your dirtypillows.

There seems to be no air in the air she breaths.

Ninety-eight percent of what goes on in people's heads is none of their smucking business.

Love among the ruins... I'll tell you something, my friend: Weird love's better than no love at all.

Dead fields under a November sky, scattered rose petals brown and turning up at the edges, empty pools scummed with algae, rot, decomposition, dust.

He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts.

Time slowed and reality bent; on and on the eggman went.