A Writer Has To True

I've Never Had Internet Access. Actually, I Have Looked At Things On Other People's Computers As A Bystander. A Few Times In My Life I've Opened Email Accounts, Twice Actually, But It's Something I Don't Want In My Life Right Now.

Each Day She Removes A Small Portion Of The Unwanted Things In People's Lives, Though All Of It, She Thinks, Was Previously Wanted, Once Useful. She Feels The Sun Scorching The Back Of Her Neck. The Heat Is At Its Worst Now, The Rains Still A Few Months Away. The Task Satisfies Her. It Passes The Time.

Most People Trusted In The Future, Assuming That Their Preferred Version Of It Would Unfold. Blindly Planning For It, Envisioning Things That Weren't The Case. This Was The Working Of The Will. This Was What Gave The World Purpose And Direction. Not What Was There But What Was Not.

I Dream Of Writing A Book Like Lovers Some Day. It Is So Spare But So Rich. It Is History Made Intimate, And A Masterpiece Of Compression.

The First Sentence Of A Book Is A Handshake, Perhaps An Embrace.