The Writer Is By Nature A Dreamer

Doctors, By God; Washing Their Hands, Looking Out Windows, Fiddling With Dreadful Things While You Are Stretched Out On A Table Or Half Undressed On A Chair.

Maybe When People Longed For A Thing That Bad The Longing Made Them Trust In Anything That Might Give It To Them.

The Music Left Only This Bad Hurt In Her, And A Blankness. She Could Not Remember Any Of The Symphony, Not Even The Last Few Notes. She Tried To Remember, But No Sound At All Came To Her. Now That It Was Over There Was Only Her Heart Like A Rabbit And This Terrible Hurt.

The People Dreamed And Fought And Slept As Much As Ever. And By Habit They Shortened Their Thoughts So That They Would Not Wander Out Into The Darkness Beyond Tomorrow.

The Closest Thing To Being Cared For Is To Care For Someone Else.