There Isn't Enough Of Anything

I Guess My Writing Has Changed As My Life Has.

All This, All Of This Love We're Talking About, It Would Just Be A Memory. Maybe Not Even A Memory. Am I Wrong? Am I Way Off Base? Because I Want You To Set Me Straight If You Think I'm Wrong. I Want To Know. I Mean, I Don't Know Anything, And I'm The First One To Admit It.

But He Stays By The Window, Remembering That Life. They Had Laughed. They Had Leaned On Each Other And Laughed Until The Tears Had Come, While Everything Else—the Cold And Where He'd Go In It—was Outside, For A While Anyway.

You're...writing For Other Writers To An Extent-the Dead Writers Whose Work You Admire, As Well As The Living Writers You Like To Read.

But I Can Hardly Sit Still. I Keep Fidgeting, Crossing One Leg And Then The Other. I Feel Like I Could Throw Off Sparks, Or Break A Window--maybe Rearrange All The Furniture.