And there's the fallacy of existence: the idea that one could be happy forever and age with a given situation or series of accomplishments.

I had decided I would put off the novel until I had gone to Europe and had a lover.

I may never be happy, but tonight I am content. At times like this I'd call myself a fool to ask for more.

I wish to cry. Yet, I laugh, and my lipstick leaves a red stain like a bloody crescent moon on top of the beer can

I want to become acutely aware of all I've taken for granted.

I am too pure for you or anyone.

My flesh winced, in cowardice, from such a death.