I can't say it like I write it...I can't write it like I think it...I can't think it like I feel it...and I don't feel a thing.
Sunday, July 27, 2003
its thunderstorm season, which would be really exciting, but it would be a lot more exciting if it didnt mean i would always have to spend 8 hours straight raking bunkers the next day.
He heard the words drag out. He felt them pull out of his mouth like freight cars, jangling, backing up on each other, grating to a halt, sliding, clinching back, jarring, and then suddenly stopping as roughly as they had begun. It was over. --Flannery O'Connor, "The Barber"
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