The Door Of The Novel, Like The

Widow. The Word Consumes Itself.

If You Love Her", I Said, "you'll Love Somebody Else Someday.

Everything In Life Is Writable.

I Desire The Things That Will Destroy Me In The End.

As I Lay On My Back In Bed Staring Up At The Blank, White Ceiling The Stillness Seemed To Grow Bigger And Bigger Until I Felt My Eardrums Would Burst With It.