Why' is a crooked letter and can't be made straight.

I'd like to learn French well enough to write in that language.

French is the language that turns dirt into romance.

For a moment everything was clear, and when that happens you see that the world is barely there at all. Don't we all secretly know this? It's a perfectly balanced mechanism of shouts and echoes pretending to be wheels and cogs, a dreamclock chiming beneath a mystery-glass we call life. Behind it? Below it and around it? Chaos, storms. Men with hammers, men with knives, men with guns. Women who twist what they cannot dominate and belittle what they cannot understand. A universe of horror and loss surrounding a single lighted stage where mortals dance in defiance of the dark.

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

And I guess you judge how well you're doing by how well you sleep at night... and what your dreams are like.

Everything's a lot tougher when it's for real. That's when you choke. When it's for real.