I Don’t Want To Fade Away, I

At Night, The House Thick With Sleep, She Would Peer Out Her Bedroom Window At The Trees And Sky And Feel The Presence Of A Mystery. Some Possibility That Included Her--separate From Her Present Life And Without Its Limitations. A Secret. Riding In The Car With Her Father, She Would Look Out At Other Cars Full Of People She'd Never Seen, Any One Of Whom She Might Someday Meet And Love, And Would Feel The World Holding Her Making Its Secret Plans.

I Haven't Had Writer's Block. I Think It's Because My Process Involves Writing Very Badly.

The Sky Was Electric Blue Above The Trees But The Yard Felt Dark. Stephanie Went To The Edge Of The Lawn And Sat Her Forehead On Her Knees. The Grass And Soil Were Still Warm From The Day. She Wanted To Cry But She Couldn't. The Feeling Was Too Deep.

We Stand There, Quiet. My Questions All Seem Wrong: How Did You Get So Old? Was It All At Once, In A Day, Or Did You Peter Out Bit By Bit? When Did You Stop Having Parties? Did Everyone Else Get Old Too, Or Was It Just You? Are Other People Still Here, Hiding In The Palm Trees Or Holding Their Breath Underwater? When Did You Last Swim Your Laps? Do Your Bones Hurt? Did You Know This Was Coming And Hide That You Knew, Or Did It Ambush You From Behind?

That Adage About 'write What You Know' Is Basically The Opposite Of The Way I Function. I Write About What I'm Curious To Find Out.