This wasn't just plain terrible$$$ this was fancy terrible. This was terrible with raisins in it.

Sometimes there are no answers.

Whatever you do$$$ protect those you care for. Without them$$$ life is more miserable than you can imagine.

It's impossible to go through life unscathed. Nor should you want to. By the hurts we accumulate$$$ we measure both our follies and our accomplishments.

The songs of the dead are the lamentations of the living.

Define normal.

I wonder if running is just another fix to a fix to a fix to a fix to a fix to a problem I can't remember.

It's a Cinderella story$$$ only at midnight she turns back into a fugitive.

Fuck me. I'm so tired of being me. Me beautiful. Me ugly. Blonde. Brunette. A million fucking fashion makeovers that only leave me trapped being me.

Suffering is key to inspiration.