Ordinary is something we all should be running from

An autumn whisper between the maples kept urging: Die with me.

But I didn't know how, so we took it in turns And to my surprise, we found my words

I've been here four days, still waiting on that double stack. I'm all outta ideas, just sit and watch the empty tracks.

I'd seen his body. His parents had insisted on an open-casket funeral, and I'd looked. Despite my brother's warning not to, I'd looked. He was so dead, and that last image of Jesse was the one that remained with me.

Trying to fathom the motives of an advanced alien race who possess the technological capacity to travel through the universe is like the frog I dissected in ninth grade trying no understand why I cut it open and pinned its guts to the table.

She can hear the sound of the radio channeling perfect white noise. It blends seamlessly with the shifting sounds in the fields as she takes her first steps into the corn. Hundreds of dark eyes peer out at her from the gaps between the stalks. And my eyes see her too.

I've been building off of you I've been texting on the freeway just to talk to you.

I don't mind that you lie sometimes, because I lie too, Guess I'm just like you

So, we fall onto the floor Not really sure if this is breaking bones, or making up? Maybe a bit of both

The next punch did not miss. Nor the next after that. One. Two. Three. Four. Crack.

That's the problem with memories: you can visit them, but you can't live in them.

The corpse cannot feel his hand on his chest. It no longer meaningfully interacts with its surroundings. A thicket of boxes and lists on red copier paper tries to answer why.

Preppy one day, surfer the next. It's like you can't decide who to be.

Why are you forgetting?

Everything is normal, everything is fine. I worry about nothing, because nothing's on my mind.

Someone you wished you could have loved has died. His memory now haunts you.

'What does it mean — a Sunday friend?' He sighs: 'That he won't be there when times get tough, I guess.' 'Is that even a friend?' 'It is — on Sundays.' He smiles.

An autumn whisper between the maples kept urging: Die with me.

In the dead center of the fields, her boots crush the crops down, and she turns her head up to the sky. For the briefest of moments, she can see the barrier between her world and infinity.