...there Must Be Something She

We Desert Those Who Desert Us; We Cannot Afford To Suffer; We Must Live How We Can.

Memory Must Be Patchy; What Is More Alarming Is Its Face-savingness. Something In One Shrinks From Catching It Out - Unique To Oneself, One's Own, One's Claim To Identity, It Implicates One's Identity In Its Fibbing.

Whenever Possible I Avoid Talking. Reprieve From Talking Is My Idea Of A Holiday. At Risk Of Seeming Unsociable, Which I Am, I Admit I Love To Be Left In A Beatific Trance, When I Am In One. Friendly Romans Recognize That Wish.

[my Early Stories] Are The Work Of A Living Writer Whom I Know In A Sense, But Can Never Meet.

Exhibitionism And A Nervous Wish For Concealment, For Anonymity, Thus Battle Inside The Buyer Of Any Piece Of Clothing.