Above All, She Wanted To

Writers Are Said To Have Superstitions And Little Rituals. Readers Have Them Too.

Wasn't Writing A Kind Of Soaring, An Achievable Form Of Flight, Of Fancy, Of The Imagination?

When Its Gone, You'll Know What A Gift Love Was. You'll Suffer Like This. So Go Back And Fight To Keep It.

And Now She Was Back In The World, Not One She Could Make, But The One That Had Made Her, And She Felt Herself Shrinking Under The Early Evening Sky. She Was Weary Of Being Outdoors, But She Was Not Ready To Go In. Was That Really All There Was In Life, Indoors Or Out? Wasn't There Somewhere Else For People To Go?

We Know So Little About Each Other. We Lie Mostly Submerged, Like Ice Floes, With Our Visible Social Selves Projecting Only Cool And White.