No One Knows Anything, Really. It's All

But It Was Too Interesting, Too New, Too Flattering, Too Deeply Comforting To Resist, It Was A Liberation To Be In Love And Say So, And She Could Only Let Herself Go Deeper.

Wasn't Writing A Kind Of Soaring, An Achievable Form Of Flight, Of Fancy, Of The Imagination?

Someone Once Asked Me "if Your Life Could Be Extended To 150 And You Could Start Another Career, Would You?" And I Said "no, Thanks, I Think I'll Stick At This."

If Life Was A Dream, Then Dying Must Be The Moment When You Woke Up. It Was So Simple It Must Be True. You Died, The Dream Was Over, You Woke Up. That's What People Meant When They Talked About Going To Heaven. It Was Like Waking Up.

And Now She Was Back In The World, Not One She Could Make, But The One That Had Made Her, And She Felt Herself Shrinking Under The Early Evening Sky. She Was Weary Of Being Outdoors, But She Was Not Ready To Go In. Was That Really All There Was In Life, Indoors Or Out? Wasn't There Somewhere Else For People To Go?