The only thing I want to do is make sure you can make me feel, just like you used to do. Tell me you hate my superiority complex and make me cry. Tell me how you want to fuck me and make me wail. Detail your ex-girlfriend's bigger breasts and make me rage. Hate me, love me, hurt me. Three basic instincts of us. How come you deny them all? Don't tell me you love me; it's a vague term that you can make yourself believe. (You can love Christmas and hate eggs just as you love me and hate Republicans.) Did you ever like my writing? Explain it passionately -- I loved the one about... All of the others lacked... Passion. I want to know why I do wrong. Why do I lie to you? To my loved ones? But I love my cats, and I tell them no lies. Ah, the transparencies of truth art delivere'd at 12:13. Do you ever think too much? I wish I thought at all.