For Years And Years I Thought That

One Stroke Of Lightning Does Not Have To Lead Anywhere, But To The Next Stroke Of Lightning.

Now I No Longer Believe That People's Secrets Are Defined And Communicable, Or Their Feelings Full-blown And Easy To Recognize.

The Story Fails But Your Faith In The Importance Of Doing The Story Doesn't Fail.

I Sit Watching The Brown Oceanic Waves Of Dry Country Rising Into The Foothills And I Weep Monotonously, Seasickly. Life Is Not Like The Dim Ironic Stories I Like To Read, It Is Like A Daytime Serial On Television. The Banality Will Make You Weep As Much As Anything Else.

It Almost Seemed As If There Must Be Some Random And Of Course Unfair Thrift In The Emotional Housekeeping Of The World, If The Great Happiness--however Temporary, However Flimsy--of One Person Could Come Out Of The Great Unhappiness Of Another.