The Length Of Sky Is Just About

He Despised His Body For Its Boring Hungers, Reflex Anger; Its Petty, Obliterating Rage. But Now He'd Become Detached. He Regarded His Body With A Tender Regret. It Was The Thing His Spirit Had To Haul.

Cold Sinks In, There To Stay. And People, They'll Leave You, Sure. There's No Return To What Was And No Way Back. There's Just Emptiness All Around, And You In It, Like Singing Up From The Bottom Of A Well, Like Nothing Else, Until You Harm Yourself, Until You Are A Mad Dog Biting Yourself For Sympathy. Because There Is No Relenting.

I Make Very Involved Drawings, Even Little Structures, And Try Using Design To Figure Out The Rhythm Of A Plot. If There Are Several Narrators Then A Clue Has To Pop Up In The First Line. There Have To Be Certain Grammatical Clues, Or Distinctive Names.

I Can't Imagine A Home Without An Overflow Of Books. The Point Of Books Is To Have Way Too Many But To Always Feel You Never Have Enough, Or The Right One At The Right Moment, But Then Sometimes To Find You'd Longed To Fall Asleep Reading The Aspern Papers, And There It Is.

Here Is The Most Telling Fact: You Wish To Possess Me.
 Here Is Another Fact: I Loved You And Let You Think You Could.