The Silence Is Perfect, And Yet A

It's The Arrangement Of Events Which Makes The Stories. It's Throwing Away, Compressing, Underlining. Hindsight Can Give Structure To Anything, But You Have To Be Able To See It. Breathing, Waking And Sleeping: Our Lives Are Steamed And Shaped Into Stories. Knowing That Is What Keeps Me From Going Insane, And Though I Don't Like To Admit It, Sometimes It's The Only Thing.

Words Are Our Life. We Are Human Because We Use Language. So I Think We Are Less Human When We Use Less Language.

Bookish People, Who Are Often Maladroit People, Persist In Thinking They Can Master Any Subtlety So Long As It's Been Shaped Into Acceptable Expository Prose.

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

We Are Too Kind, Too Willing--too Unwilling Too--reaching Out Blindly With A Grasping Hand But Not Knowing How To Ask For What We Don't Even Know We Want.