I Don't Know If I'm Truly At

I Think Walking Is Very Useful, Like Sleeping And Dreaming, As Something That's Important To My Ability To Write.

I Commit Her To Memory. When I'm Alone, I Feel A Strange Yearning, The Hunger Of A Man Fasting Not Because He Believes But Because He's Ashamed. Not The Cleansing Hunger Of The Devout, But The Feverish Hunger Of The Hypocrite. I Let Her Go Every Evening Only Because There's Nothing I Can Do To Stop Her.

Some Of My Relatives Held On To Imagined Memories The Way Homeless People Hold Onto Lottery Tickets. Nostalgia Was Their Crack Cocaine, If You Will, And My Childhood Was Littered With The Consequences Of Their Addiction : Unserviceable Debts, Squabbles Over Inheritances, The Odd Alcoholic Or Suicide.

We're All United In This, That Every Human Being Migrates Through Time, That The Place We Grew Up In In Our Childhood Is Gone When We're In Our 50s And 60s And 70s.

If My Daughter Wanted To Wear A Headscarf And Dress In A Religiously Conservative Way, I Would Be Heartbroken. But If She Were To Decide To Do That And She Were To Live In A Place Where People Said She Couldn't Do That, I Would Be Entirely Committed To Her Right To Do So.