How Often Do We Do That, He

Sometimes I Didn't Even Feel Like Getting Out Of Bed. I Took To Wearing My Days-of-the-week Panties Out Of Order. It Could Be Monday And I'd Have On Underwear Saying Thursday. I Just Didn't Care.

Every Little Thing Wants To Be Loved.

I Think Many People Need, Even Require, A Narrative Version Of Their Life. I Seem To Be One Of Them. Writing Memoir Is, In Some Ways, A Work Of Wholeness.

I Watched Him, Filled With Tenderness And Ache, Wondering What It Was That Connected Us. Was It The Wounded Places Down Inside People That Sought Each Other Out, That Bred A Kind Of Love Between Them?

To Fashion An Inner Story Of Our Pain Carries Us Into The Heart Of It, Which Is Where Rebirth Inevitably Occurs.