What Happened To A Dream

I Imagined My Soul Taking In These Words Like Silicated Water In The Petrified Forest, Turning My Wood To Patterned Agate. I Liked It When My Mother Shaped Me This Way. I Thought Clay Must Feel Happy In The Good Potter's Hand.

I Tried Writing Fiction As A Little Kid, But Had A Teacher Humiliate Me, So Didn't Write Again Until I Was A Senior In College.

Being In The Library Is So Addictive For Me That I Really Have To Exercise Self-control So I Can Get Some Writing Done At Home.

That Was The Thing About Words, They Were Clear And Specific-chair, Eye, Stone- But When You Talked About Feelings, Words Were Too Stiff, They Were This And Not That, They Couldn't Include All The Meanings. In Defining, They Always Left Something Out.

It's All I Ever Really Wanted, That Revelation. The Possibility Of Fixed Stars.