The Silence Is Perfect, And

Our Friendship Is Made Up Of These Brief Frenzied Exchanges, But The Quality Of Our Conversation, For All Its Feverish Outpouring, Is Genuine.

Happiness Is The Lucky Pane Of Glass You Carry In Your Head. It Takes All Your Cunning Just To Hang On To It, And Once It's Smashed You Have To Move Into A Different Sort Of Life.

The Silence Is Perfect, And Yet A Torment.

The Scolding Voice Is Her Own, So Abrasive And Quick, Yet So Powerless To Move Her.

We Are Too Kind, Too Willing--too Unwilling Too--reaching Out Blindly With A Grasping Hand But Not Knowing How To Ask For What We Don't Even Know We Want.