In the dead of summer I dreamt it was autumn and cool, cold even, and thought of the oncoming winter. Stunned, I yearned for summer again.

Life was hard enough without dealing with these extingencies.

Her: I haven't decided. Are you a good man?

Him: Probably not. Actually, the way it's defined, I know I'm not.

Her: You're honest at least.

Him: I'm more honest than good.

I'm suffering somewhat from alcohol withdrawal. Let this be noted in the ledger of my life.

1: I have a question. It is meant to be taken as seriously as one takes a question which I've never before asked.
2: Okay.
1:  What do you want last night to turn into?
2: Oh.
1: I mean, it's your choice completely. I'm fine with whatever you choose.
2: It takes a special kind of asshole to be this sort of indecisive.
1: I would like to think that if I am an asshole, it is a fault of personality as opposed to one of character.
2: That's exactly the thing a real asshole would say.

We must all have a measure of sadness in our lives lest we forget our humanity.

I probably won't see you again, he said. One less thing to run away from.

Life is about choices. One choice will get you closer to being the one you imagined yourself. The other choice will get you closer to the person you should be.

I love it and I hate it and I love that I hate it, or do I hate that I love it? Probably the latter.

But love and hate really are inadequate, are they not? Of course they are. Something closer to "despise" and "relish" is what I'm after. 

I leave this open-ended, not unlike Inception.

You don't write and you don't write and you don't write because you're content, and the vodka is nearby, or a significant other is talking to you online.

But then you are alone one night and alone and alone and it's the same night still, and what can you do but write?