Love Is The Only Passion

I Kept The Fingers Of My Left Hand Crossed All The Time, While On My Right-hand Fingers I Counted Anything At All—steps To The Refrigerator, Seconds On The Clock, Words In A Sentence—to Keep My Head Occupied. The Counting Felt Like Something To Hang On To, As If Finding The Right Numbers Might Somehow Crack The Code On Whatever System Ran The Slippery Universe We Were Moving Through.

I Think We Fall In Love And Become Adults And Become Citizens In A Way By Writing Stories About Ourselves.

I Get So Lonely Sometimes, I Could Put A Box On My Head And Mail Myself To A Stranger.

I Tell People Not To Write Too Soon About Their Lives. Writing About Yourself Too Young Is Loaded With Psychological Complexities.

When I Got Sober, I Thought Giving Up Was Saying Goodbye To All The Fun And All The Sparkle, And It Turned Out To Be Just The Opposite. That's When The Sparkle Started For Me.