It's Hard Work Being A Person, You

Write The Book You Want To Read, The One You Cannot Find.

I'm Concerned About The Unknowability Of Other People.

And Yet, Within Her Anxiety, Secured There Like A Gemstone, She Carries The Cool And Curious Power Of Occasionally Being Able To See The World Vividly. Clarity Bursts Upon Her A Spray Of Little Stars. She Understands This, And Thinks Of It As One Of The Tricks Of Consciousness; There Is Something Almost Luxurious About It.. The Narrative Maze Opens And Permits Her To Pass Through. She May Be Crowded Out Of Her Own Life - She Knows This For A Fact And Has Always Know It - But She Possesses, As A Compensatory Gift, The Startling Ability To Draft Alternative Versions.

The Silence Is Perfect, And Yet A Torment.

Eventually, Everything Gets Stuck Between A Pair Of Parentheses Or Buried In The Bottom Of A Trunk.