Books Mean All Possibilities. They

Remember You Must Live. Remember You Most Love. Remainder You Mist Leaf.

What Shop Did This Book Come From? She Asked. Her Father Was Looking Worried At The Cooker. He Always Got Rice Wrong. I Don't Know, Brooksie, He Said, I Don't Remember. That Was Unimaginable, Not Remembering Where A Book Has Come From! And Where It Was Bought From! That Was Part Of The Whole History, The Whole Point, Of Any Book That You Owned! And When You Picked It Up Later In The House At Home, You Knew, You Just Knew By Looking And Having It In Your Hand, Where It Came From And Where You Got It And When And Why You'd Decided To Buy It.

We're Well Past The End Of The Century When Time, For The First Time, Curved, Bent, Slipped, Flash Forwarded, And Flashed Back Yet Still Kept Rolling Along. We Know It All Now, With Our Thoughts Traveling At The Speed Of A Tweet, Our 140 Characters In Search Of A Paragraph. We're Post-history. We're Post-mystery.

I Wouldn't Call My Work Modernist. I Would Rust If I Try To Think About Labels. I'd Feel Like The Tin Man In 'the Wizard Of Oz.

We All Know Our Dates Of Birth But . . . Every Year There Is Another Date That We Pass Over Without Knowing What It Is But It Is Just As Important It Is The Other Date The Death Date.