If You Can't Fix It, You Have

Their Silence Comfortable. Something Unfolding. But What? Not Love, Which Wrenched And Wounded. Not Love, Which Came Only Once.

Wonderful ... I Was Up All Night Reading It, Laughing And Crying Out In Horror.

A Spinning Coin, Still Balanced On Its Rim, May Fall In Either Direction.

Was Love Then Like A Bag Of Assorted Sweets Passed Around From Which One Might Choose More Than Once? Some Might Sting The Tongue, Some Invoke Night Perfume. Some Had Centers As Bitter As Gall, Some Blended Honey And Poison, Some Were Quickly Swallowed. And Among The Common Bull's-eyes And Peppermints A Few Rare Ones; One Or Two With Deadly Needles At The Heart, Another That Brought Clam And Gentle Pleasure. Were His Fingers Closing On That One?

It's Easier To Die If Others Around You Are Dying.