The only thing limiting your aspiration is your imagination.

Oh God. We__e talking about me being naked, in the shower with cooter cream. Please world, end. Kill me. __ know it__ not soap. I just_ if it__ scented_ I can__ do scented. Flowers and stuff like that. Fruit-flavored soaps make_ things_ burnish._ She could tell from the peeks at his face Mr. Fitzwell had never stepped foot in bath and lotion store, wanting to try the array of fun fragrances. Nor had he purchased Peppermint Candy shower gel, foamed up his nether regions, and felt like he had dipped them in lava. Dove crossed and uncrossed her legs at the memory. Mr. Fitzwell seemed concerned. __kay, just a heads-up. It__ definitely not good to put any fruits or plant life near your genitals._ He made a V with his hands and formed his own pretend vagina in front of his pants. Dove covered her eyes and tried to defend herself because now she could hear the sickly older woman beating her supporters with a purse. Dove__ mumbling got louder with her embarrassment. __ don__ put weird things down_ there. Just make sure that the cream__ vagina-scented. Just plain. For vaginas._ She kept her eyes on the counter.

After all this time, he had hope, and then hope was gone, and he hates himself for giving in to hope. He, who exists only to kill the hopes of others, could not destroy the hope within himself.

Cold comradeship do stars provide.They light the closer, inner sideOf night's vast weight, which, chill and clear,Pulls on us like some puppeteer.Its unseen threads to heads and heartsAttached, it acts us through our parts,From birth's first cry to bent old age,Upon our distant, tiny stage.

I've heard fate talked of. It's not a word I use. I think we make our own choices. I think how we live our lives is our own doing, and we cannot fully hope on dreams and stars. But dreams and stars can guide us, perhaps. And the heart's voice is a strong one. Always is.

There is no shortage of fault to be found amidst our stars.