We Always Worry About The

Yes," She Answers And Does Not Move. She Might, At This Moment, Be Nothing But A Floating Intelligence; Not Even A Brain Inside A Skull, Just A Presence That Perceives, As A Ghoast Might. Yes, She Thinks, This Is Probably How It Must Feel To Be A Ghost. It's A Little Like Reading, Isn't It-that Same Sensation Of Knowing People, Settings, Situations, Without Playing Any Particular Part Beyond That Of The Willing Observer.

She Is Overtaken By A Sensation Of Unbeing. There Is No Other Word For It.

We Become The Stories We Tell Ourselves

Her Cake Is A Failure, But She Is Loved Anyway. She Is Loved, She Thinks, In More Or Less The Way The Gifts Will Be Appreciated: Because They Have Been Given With Good Intentions , Because They Exist, Because They Are Part Of A World In Which One Wants What One Gets.

I Don't Think Two People Could Have Been Happier Than We Have Been.