“My brain has become my enemy. We fight over creation and his need for sleep.”

“I,” I start, and she turns to look at my lips moving, rehearsing for some grand proposal. “I think it’d be good idea if you brought a few books over and left them on my shelf.” I’m a writer, and this is as good as it gets. She didn’t need a ring, just the ability to borrow a bookmark whenever she needed, or unwritten or unspoken permission to take my copy of Cecil Brown’s The Life and Loves of Mr. Jiveass Nigger with the original cover.”

“Tell me what you’re looking for and i will become that for you. I can sacrifice my inner freedoms for you without looking twice at my old journals and solid promises I made to myself about such things. But you must be prepared to kill me when the smiles are no longer frequent. Do it while I sleep. While I hold your hand. Do it fast, baby. Do it fast.”

“My relationships failed because i never showed up to the wars i didn't feel like fighting.”

“I hate being a writer. i tend to stick my emotions in things that cannot reciprocate. I've become a whore for my craft.”

“We are not sure what we will become, only what we want to and don’t want to. We often become what we never thought we could, then we become fine with that.”

“I’m crossing my fingers that we grow deaf together. I’m pleased just writing you.”