Every Story We Remember Is A Novel.

My Mind, I Know, I Can Prove, Hovers On Hummingbird Wings. It Hovers And It Churns. And When It's Operating At Full Thrust, The Churning Does Not Stop. The Machines Do Not Rest, The Systems Rarely Cool. And While I Can Forget Anything Of Any Importance--this Is Why People Tell Me Secrets--my Mind Has An Uncanny Knack For Organization When It Comes To Pain. Nothing Tormenting Is Ever Lost, Never Even Diminished In Color Or Intensity Or Quality Of Sound.

I See Colors Like You Hear Jet Planes.

They Were So In Love With The World, And So Disappointed In Every Aspect Of It.

We've Lost That Very Simple Transaction That's So Pure, Where A Reader Can Say, "i Support What You're Doing, Here's My Dollar. I Know That You Guys Are Gonna Be Watchdogs Or Keep The Government Accountable, So Here's My 50-cent Contribution Each Day." It's Just So Tidy, And I Think So Inspiring.

My Voice And Movements Are Restricted By The Things I Own.