Don’t beat yourself up, son. I’m sure there is a culture on this spinning ball of dirt where you can be pretty. If not, do rock ‘n roll, or practice words. That shit’s pretty as well.

Love caught me with my pants down, watering skeleton flowers and humming the blues.

My face is shaped like a face, and my body like a body, but my thoughts are very unusual. Piano from the third floor. Daisies on a roof.