As A Little Girl, I Didn't Like

Well, I Would Hardly Say I Do Write As Yet. But I Write Because I Like Words. I Suppose If I Liked Stone I Might Carve. I Like Words. I Like Reading. I Notice Particular Words. That Sets Me Off.

Think Of This - That The Writer Wrote Alone, And The Reader Read Alone, And They Were Alone With Each Other.

Once Upon A Time, When Men And Women Hurtled Through The Air On Metal Wings, When They Wore Webbed Feet And Walked On The Bottom Of The Sea, Learning The Speech Of Whales And The Songs Of The Dolphins, When Pearly-fleshed And Jewelled Apparitions Of Texan Herdsmen And Houris Shimmered In The Dusk On Nicaraguan Hillsides, When Folk In Norway And Tasmania In Dead Of Winter Could Dream Of Fresh Strawberries, Dates, Guavas And Passion Fruits And Find Them Spread Next Morning On Their Tables, There Was A Woman Who Was Largely Irrelevant, And Therefore Happy.

…my Solitude Is My Treasure, The Best Thing I Have.

It Is Good For A Man To Invite His Ghosts Into His Warm Interior, Out Of The Wild Night, Into The Firelight, Out Of The Howling Dark.