He Might Have Been Naive, But He

Sometimes We Just Walk Into Something That Is Not For Us At All. We Pretend It Is. We Think We Can Shrug It Off Like A Coat, But It's Not A Coat At All, It's More Like Another Skin. [...] All I Wanted Was To Make My Life Thrilling For A While: To Take The Oridinary Objects Of My Days And Make A Different Argument Out Of Them, No Obligations To My Past.

It Had Never Occurred To Me Before But Everything In New York Is Built Upon Another Thing, Nothing Is Entirely By Itself, Each Thing As Strange As The Last, And Connected.

Everything Was Fabulous, Even Our Breakdowns.

Where Happiness Was Not A Possibility, The Illusion Of It Was Always More Important.

It Is Not Fashionable Anymore, I Suppose, To Have A Regard For One's Mother In The Way My Brother And I Had Then, In The Mid-1950s, When The Noise Outside The Window Was Mostly Wind And Sea Chime.