The thing with adapted movies is that the books are always so much better.


It was not the suicides nor
quirks of fate, but a silent
creeping of the soul toward
some precipice that, when
abandoned, would explode
into a million tiny stars, every
one of them either laughing
or frowning at humankind's
mistreatment of these little

And it is so sad, this
mixing of deaths and loves
and the air, the sky, the small
particles of miracles.

It is sad
not because of the loves or
deaths or anything in between,
but because of the simple
fact of misery. The air around
us, latticed into pinstripes and
open wounds, is dusky with
the shadows of the five who
escaped without even bidding
their audience goodbye.

to the author, dear man, are
you satisfied now?