Writers Will Be Judged By What They

A Little Autobiography And A Lot Of Imagination Are Best.

Dreams, You Know, Are What You Wake Up From.

There Isn't Enough Of Anything As Long As We Live. But At Intervals A Sweetness Appears And, Given A Chance Prevails.

She Serves Me A Piece Of It A Few Minutes Out Of The Oven. A Little Steam Rises From The Slits On Top. Sugar And Spice - Cinnamon - Burned Into The Crust. But She's Wearing These Dark Glasses In The Kitchen At Ten O'clock In The Morning - Everything Nice - As She Watches Me Break Off A Piece, Bring It To My Mouth, And Blow On It. My Daughter's Kitchen, In Winter. I Fork The Pie In And Tell Myself To Stay Out Of It. She Says She Loves Him. No Way Could It Be Worse.

I Am A Cigarette With A Body Attached To It