He's the boy who smokes Marlboro cigarettes and I'm the girl who makes theater puppets. Dreams and ashes__wo things in the universe that should never meet because they are opposites, right?

I was hoping to find a way out of here and instead found you.

I feel as though I should say something profound, or enact some rite, or trade something to make it official. I want to transfer some trinket which would allow me to say that she's my girl, some kind of currency that proves to people that she likes me back. Something that would permit me to think about her all the time without feeling guilty or helpless or hopelessly far away. I guess I'm just so excited, I want to cage this thing like a tiny red bird so if can't fly away, so it stays the same, so it's still there the next time. For keeps, like a coin in your pocket. Like a peach pit from Mad Jack Lionel's tree. Like scribbled words in a locked suitcase. A bright balloon to tie to your bedpost. And you want to hug it close, hold it, but not so tight it bursts.

It's fate, but fate just gives us a nudge in the right direction onthe fast lane, I guarantee she doesn't have her hands in your pockets while she's doing it

The universe doesn't hand out blank cards to play. You will know your hand soon enough.

Because your soul, on this soulless planet, sticks out like one star in a starless sky. And it__ beautiful.