Florida was plenty hot, certainly, and humid, too. Hot enough that your clothes stuck to you like Scotch tape, and sweat dripped like tears from your forehead into your eyes. But it was only hot outside, and generally I only went outside to walk from one air-conditioned location to another.
My question? It has no answer.
When I look at my room, I see a girl who loves books.
How will we ever get out of this labyrinth of suffering?
Sometimes you lose a battle. But mischief always wins the war.
That swan is the spawn of Satan. Never get closer to it than we are now.
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?
The only way out of the labyrinth of suffering is to forgive.
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and then