But life is long. And it is the long run that balances the short flare of interest and passion.
I wanted to crawl in between those black lines of print, the way you crawl through a fence, and go to sleep under that beautiful big green fig-tree.
Perhaps, perhaps this would be the one to pull me out of my plunge.
They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
Not being perfect hurts.
We know a thing by its opposite corollary; hot by having experienced cold; good by having decided what is bad; love by hate.