Life is short,           though I keep this from my children.






Life is short,          and I've shortened mine
                                                    in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
                                                                          a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways






                              I'll keep from my children. The world is at least
                                                    fifty percent terrible, and that's a conservative
                                                                          estimate, though I keep this from my children.






                              For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.






                              For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
                                                    sunk in a lake.





Life is short           and the world is at least half terrible, and for every kind
                                                    stranger, there is one who would break you,
                                                                          though I keep this from my children.





                              I am trying to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
                                                    walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
                                                                          about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
                                                                                                right? You could make this place beautiful.