This Is Not My Life.

She Takes Another Long Haul, Lets The Smoke Settle In Her Lungs-- She Has Heard Somewhere That Cigarettes Are Good For Grief. One Long Drag And You Forget How To Cry. The Body Too Busy Dealing With The Poison.

I Know Already That I Will Return To This Day Whenever I Want To. I Can Bid It Alive. Preserve It. There Is A Still Point Where The Present, The Now, Winds Around Itself, And Nothing Is Tangled. The River Is Not Where It Begins Or Ends, But Right In The Middle Point, Anchored By What Has Happened And What Is To Arrive.

I Don't Know Of A Greater Privilege Than Being Allowed To Tell A Story, Or To Listen To A Story. They're The Only Thing We Have That Can Trump Life Itself.

A Lot Of People Think That Writers Are Much Cleverer Than They Actually Are. No, They're Not. But They're Emotionally Clever, And They Go Into A Character, And They Feel Something That They Weren't Entirely Aware Of Beforehand.

Long Ago, Long Ago. The Simple Things Come Back To Us. They Rest For A Moment By Our Ribcages Then Suddenly Reach In And Twist Our Hearts A Notch Backward.