I always thought you were immune to that question.  Wasn't it enough, looking into your eyes as I did?  But here is your answer, if you must have it: What is beauty?  Is it pure sexual attraction?  Because I swear there is no alluring stranger, no old flame, no celebrity crush that I desire as I desire you.  Is it some arbitrarily magical combination of features?  Because since I have known you, you have been the measure by which all works of art are measured. ...

Written by Quin Browne They kill the sweet baby cows before their eyes turn brown, you know. Pale fleshed, silly creatures, blindly trusting, going into the dark place with the filtered light, the muffled voices, growing complacent, coaxed by soft hands that touch with gentle movements, moving forward from one place to the other, no stress, content with the attention received. Little innocents, who walk into a room to see what is there, sensing no danger, held down, forced into an uncomfor...

Ideas never come to me fully formed. I'm a comedian that only remembers the punchline, a musician that only remembers the final chord. That's all I've ever had: conclusions. For me, writing isn't really about expression. It's about connecting the dots between where I am and what I've already concluded. And, in case you were wondering: yes, that's what I'm doing right now. This entire e-mail is based off a single thought that flashed through my head: "conclusions are all I have." It's...

It's night time, and the street lamps have just lit the main streets with an orange glow that I have come to associate with the emptiness of a city at night. A car whizzes past, tiny sparks flying up from a cigarette cast carelessly out the window. The palm trees stir in the wind like restless soldiers; perhaps they are impatient with their charges. Or perhaps they, like me, are tired of hearing the same old lies. "The sun will come out tomorrow." Much good that does if all our blinds ar...

Today -- is all gray --and though I fling paint up at the sky, it falls pitifully back down, and somehow the scarlet that seems so cheerful in the sky is not so cheerful in the face. Today I sang amazing grace (the sound was sickly sweet); the irony so thick I gagged, I watched your love retreat. But it's no use watching, and so, eyes glued heavenward, the paint keeps flying. Could any day be more brilliant?