I Had The Sensation That

People Say I Talk Slowly. I Talk In A Way Sometimes Called Laconic. The Phone Rings, I Answer, And People Ask If They've Woken Me Up. I Lose My Way In The Middle Of Sentences, Leaving People Hanging For Minutes. I Have No Control Over It. I'll Be Talking, And Will Be Interested In What I'm Saying, But Then Someone-i'm Convinced This What Happens-someone-and I Wish I Knew Who, Because I Would Have Words For This Person-for A Short Time, Borrows My Head. Like A Battery Is Borrowed From A Calculator To Power A Remote Control, Someone, Always, Is Borrowing My Head.

So I Should Be Aware Of The Dangers Of Self-consciousness, But At The Same Time, I’ll Be Plowing Through The Fog Of All These Echoes, Plowing Through Mixed Metaphors, Noise, And Will Try To Show The Core, Which Is Still There, As A Core, And Is Valid, Despite The Fog. The Core Is The Core Is The Core. There Is Always The Core, That Can’t Be Articulated. Only Caricatured.

I Hung Up The Phone, Jubilant, And Threw Myself Into A Wall, Then Pretended To Be Getting Electrocuted. I Do This When I'm Very Happy.

I Like The Dark Part Of The Night, After Midnight And Before Four-thirty, When It's Hollow, When Ceilings Are Harder And Farther Away. Then I Can Breathe, And Can Think While Others Are Sleeping, In A Way Can Stop Time, Can Have It So – This Has Always Been My Dream – So That While Everyone Else Is Frozen, I Can Work Busily About Them, Doing Whatever It Is That Needs To Be Done, Like The Elves Who Make The Shoes While Children Sleep.

I Worked At Magazines For Over 10 Years Before I Even Thought Of Writing A Book.