No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story.
Three months after Andy’s departure, the unthinkable happened—unthinkable to a naïve twenty-one-year-old college student, anyway. Andy ended our four-year relationship with an icy cold “Dear Jane.” A shortish, not-so-sweet, correspondence espousing upon how he had never really loved me. Ouch! Experiencing Europe had changed him. Allowed him to find himself…
Blah, blah, blah… blah, blah.
Once in the middle of a work meeting, I had a panic attack. I did not know then what it was or what incited it. I felt lightheaded, and something about the four walls of the room felt so constricting that it made me dizzy and out of breath. My panic attacks began after my father had died.
I tap letter by letter until, in the commas, you embody a loophole ...
A drunkard is not very good at repaying a debt, but very good at accruing more. Since we began, we have only owed more and more.
Lincoln never intended to get into finance, let alone abandon his acting career in L.A. But then he needed to help pay his mother's bills, keep the roof of his childhood home over her head. The days of standing in casting lines were over.
The bookseller smiled. “Infinity is right under your nose, my friend.”