"Not Really," he said then lit a cigarette and handed it to me. I inhaled. Coughed. Wheezed. Gasped for breath. Coughed again. Considered vomiting. Grabbed the swinging bench, head spinning, and threw the cigarette to the ground and stomped on it, convinced my Great Perhaps did not involve cigarettes.
How will we ever get out of this labyrinth of suffering?
The only way out of the labyrinth of suffering is to forgive.
That swan is the spawn of Satan. Never get closer to it than we are now.
Sometimes you lose a battle. But mischief always wins the war.
When I look at my room, I see a girl who loves books.
My question? It has no answer.
It’s not imaginary. It’s my great perhaps.
I wondered whether I could find a Great Perhaps here at all or whether I had made a grand miscalculation.
The pigs can’t stop the fox; I’m too quick. I can rhyme while I run; I’m that slick.
This mystery can’t be solved. We have to live with that for the rest of our lives.
And I wrote my way out of the labyrinth.
Not to ask the obvious question, but why Alaska?
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