“I don’t mind wasting my hours with you.”

This winter is quite inviting knowing your warm hands will be upon mine every minute.

Just you and only you. You fit so perfectly in my arms, in my bed and between my legs.

I seek out your skin at night.

I want to have my best days with you.

There won’t be anyone else. I can tell you that right now. Your eyes show me that you don’t believe that just yet. Even if it takes me months or years. I’ll make you believe it so.

Theres a lover in you somewhere.

You have hues of love on your skin.

Down upon my tongue I feel your skin sigh. A touch of sensual, luxury, and statisfy.

I hope when she touches you it burns holes into your skin and leaves scars where my lips would have been.

I’ll let you grab my hips any day of the week, if only you promise to pull me close and whisper that I’m the best view you’ve ever seen.

I spoke to myself in lyrics and sugar coated words. A melody of lies and symphonies to soften the blow of how i really felt. I licked at the tender taste and fell into a cacophony within my skin. Would this ever end? This denial of feelings?

My unrestrained words fall right onto your tongue, whilst you hover above me, restraining my hands to the headboard.

Never mind your restless heart.

Devour me and let me feel your every move.

Your name in lights illuminates my skin.

The night used to spill down onto my skin. Now it just swallows me whole.

Never turn back and never believe that an hour you remember is a better hour because it is dead. Passed years seem safe ones, vanquished ones, while the future lives in a cloud, formidable from a distance.

The clever guy will take a half hour to have an accident, and the stupid guy will take ten minutes.

And I was like, “Yeah, anything. Twenty-four hours times five is 120 hours. Oh, great, I’ll fill 120 hours of my life with something.” So I did that and it was fun, and then I did Flirting with Disaster.

The spirit I had caught gave me insight into the suffering of others, made me gravitate toward those whose feelings were like my own, made me sit for hours while others told me of their lives, made me strangely tender and cruel, violent and peaceful.

I really had to decide why I was writing. I had no interest in going back to law; I very briefly – for about six hours – considered going to get my MBA, but in the end, I realized that the only work I really wanted to do was write.

What you don’t necessarily realize when you start selling your time by the hour is that what you’re really selling is your life.

I ran everywhere in the city like a fly buzzing in the works of a clock, tasted more than any fit belly could hold, learned not to sleep, and buried myself in a tick-tock of whirling hours that still echo in me.

In the modern world, in which thousands of people are dying every hour as a consequence of politics, no writing anywhere can begin to be credible unless it is informed by political awareness and principles.