Saturday, June 21

Friday, June 20

Murphy, the patron saint of petulant pretty boys everywhere, the compulsive rubber of her face into soft kitten bellies, the debilitated drinker of spirits, one in heart and soul with chinese food, believes she writes predominantly about herself and that it really ought to stop.

Thursday, June 12

My God, these folks don't know how to love — that's why they love so easily.
The Letters of D. H. Lawrence

I never saw a wild thing
Sorry for itself.
A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough
without ever having felt sorry for itself.
- Self-Pity