Because I Grew Up With This Naive

We Lose Weeks Like Buttons, Like Pencils.

My Voice And Movements Are Restricted By The Things I Own.

We See The Beauty Within And Cannot Say No.

We Feel That To Reveal Embarrassing Or Private Things, We Have Given Someone Something, That, Like A Primitive Person Fearing That A Photographer Will Steal His Soul, We Identify Our Secrets, Our Past And Their Blotches, With Our Identity, That Revealing Our Habits Or Losses Or Deeds Somehow Makes One Less Of Oneself.

When Anybody Starts Out With A Memoir, You Get The Impulse To Tell Your Own Story With Your Own Voice, And You Get All That Out In One Fell Swoop Sometimes.