Waxing philosophical, reminiscing, and otherwise spinning a (mostly-true) yarn.
I’m so sick of writing, sometimes. That’s why I’ve quit so many times. Even as I read that last sentence,
“Yes, you’re going to die one of these days.” Libby stood on the porch to my best friend, Mikey’s, house.
A few months back, I’d opened up a window on Sunday morning to keep the smell of bacon from wafting.
Bruno, you poor bastard. Just when they thought Copernicus was crazy, you came striding in: “The stars are suns with
You don’t hang out with your friends because they’re fun. Even if you do enjoy it, that’s not why you’re
Thirty-Three: Point, click, rotating arrow. And here we are. I didn’t even plan it like this. I turned 33 this
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