Hank hugged me and said, “At least it was instant. At least there wasn’t any pain.”
I knew he was only trying to help, but he didn't get it. There was pain. A dull endless pain in my gut that wouldn't go away even when I knelt on the stingingly frozen tile of the bathroom, dry-heaving.
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?
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.
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and then