(In response to a picture critic.)

I'm actually a very joyful person. But being a genius with a photographic memory mixed with a strong case of OCD makes for a difficult picture sometimes.

My hands aren't yours to reach and grab.
My feet aren't yours to walk.
My back's not yours to ride and stab.
My tongue's not yours to talk.

You'll see me in the morning
if you do not flood the street.
You'll hear me in the evening
if you don't drowned out the beat.

Take a step in the right direction and you will find your smile again. It will be there beaming by the light of God’s amazing grace.

Parce qu'il y a certaines habitudes qui deviennent vitales. Aussi futiles soient elles, elles deviennent des points de repères, des choses sur lesquelles on se base pour avancer. Faire sonner trois fois son réveil le matin avant de se lever. Avoir une marque de café favorite. Être assis toujours à la même place à table. Lacer sa chaussure gauche avant la droite. Des gestes qui se transforment en rituels et si ça foire un jour plus rien ne va et on se sent perdu.

He had no idea how wonderful he was. How his hands were so beautiful she could hardly look at them. How his truest smile was crooked and lifted higher on the left side than the right, which made her feel like he might understand her better, her hemiplegic face that was all crooked half smiles, too. But it couldn't be denied. He was also slightly crazy. Maybe more than slightly.