After everything said, after is everything done, I think grew up to be the kind of person that I wanted to be. I mean: dear god, I actually do like being Caleb Jonathan Anderson, and I honestly wouldn't accept a swapsies for any other life in the entire range of catalogues available.

I reckon you gotta follow the smell of blood in your nostrils, eventually it lead you (by many twists and turns) straight to wherever, whatever compass your heart is set to. Now I'm no angel! but to me she always wore her halo like a tight dress, voluptuous, full of shadows and curve, to me, at least, she's as vibrant as a plucked harp, but then against at most! at most! she hurts my eyes – she's far too bright! to look at directly without some kind of smoked glass, or other eye protection.

I have to turn my head away; I cup my gaze, because it's like looking into a precious metal being heated bright white hot inside the burning foundry of the sun. It's too much, it cuts, too beautiful.

Probably just my issue. I do tend to think every woman I meet spits full-stops.

The world needs idiots—at least as entertainment.