I Could See My Face, Crying, In

A Lot Of The Drive To Make Narratives Came From Having To Play By Myself As A 5- Or 6-year-old In The Woods.

Perhaps His Gloom Was Due To His Profession, That He Lived Among Fallen Empires, And In Reading These Languages That Had Not Been Spoken By The Common Man In Centuries, He Had All About Him The Ruin Of Language, Evidence Of Toppled Suburbs, Grass Growing Among The Mosaics, And Voices That Had Been Choked With Poison, Iron, Age, Or Ash.

Whispering Makes A Narrow Place Narrower.

I Could See My Face, Crying, In Her Blank Eye.

I've Always Enjoyed That Kind Of Thing - Thinking About The Production Of Narrative And Why It Is That When We Read A Novel, We Don't Notice The Fact That Someone Who Might Be Very Close-mouthed Or Tight-lipped Is Perfectly Willing To Tell Us A Story In 600 Or 700 Pages.