How Was It Possible To Wake Up

To Hike Out Alone In The Desert; To Sleep On The Valley Floor On A Night With No Moon, In The Pitch Black, Just Listening To The Boom Of Silence: You Can't Imagine What That's Like.

I Smiled Back, The Importance Of Manners, My Mother Always Said, Is Inversely Related To How Inclined One Is To Use Them, Or, In Other Words, Sometimes Politeness Is All That Stands Between Oneself And Madness.

The Rhyme Always Knows Better Than You, And Leads You To Places Where You Wouldn't Otherwise Have Gotten To And That Is Absolutely The Case. Leading Off From Formal Poetry, There Is Something About When You Pay Attention To Form And You Allow It To Have Its Own Laws And You Listen To Those Laws You Really Do End Up In Places You Wouldn't Otherwise Go. Which Isn't To Say That I Believe In Following The Rules When I Write. I Don't. Each Of The Forms In My Books Feels To Me New.

The Clarity Was Startling And Samson Wondered Whether He Was Imagining These Moments. Not That They Hadn't Happened At All, But That They Had Been Embellished By Details From Elsewhere, Fragments That Survived The Obliteration Of Other Memories, Vagrant Data That Gravitated And Stuck To What Was Left To Remember. But In The End He Rejected This Idea. The Memories Were Too Perfect: Take One Detail Away And They Collapsed Into Disorder.

The Truth Was I'd Given Up Waiting Long Ago. The Moment Had Passed, The Door Between The Lives We Could Have Led And The Lives We Led Had Shut In Our Faces. Or Better To Say, In My Face. Grammar Of My Life: As A Rule Of Thumb, Wherever There Appears A Plural, Correct For Singular. Should I Ever Let Slip A Royal We, Put Me Out Of My Misery With A Swift Blow To The Head.