Can We Really Choose Anything?' 'maybe. If

It's Rare That I Read More Than Two Or Three Books By Any One Author, Usually Only One.

But It Does Make Me Sad That We've Forgotten Our Names. Out Of Everything, This Seems To Me The Most Tragic. I Miss My Own And I Mourn For Everyone Else's, Because I'd Like To Love Them, But I Don't Know Who They Are.

He Is Spent. His Mind Is Mercury Again, Its Brief Surge Of Humanity Melting Into An Oily Residue On Its Surface, And He No Longer Understands The Feelings He Felt In That Strange Moment On The Overpass. But He Did Feel Them. They Did Happen. They Rest On The Murky Seabed Of His Mind, Buried Under Sand And Silt And Miles Of Grey Waves. Patient Seeds Waiting For Light.

I Think For A Minute. Watching My Wife Fade Into The Distance, I Put A Hand On My Heart. "dead." I Wave A Hand Toward My Wife. "dead." My Eyes Drift Toward The Sky And Lose Their Focus. "want It...to Hurt. But...doesn't." Julie Looks At Me Like She's Waiting For More, And I Wonder If I've Expressed Anything At All With My Halting, Mumbled Soliloquy. Are My Words Ever Actually Audible, Or Do They Just Echo In My Head While People Stare At Me, Waiting? I Want To Change My Punctuation. I Long For Exclamation Marks, But I'm Drowning In Ellipses.

We Have To Remember Everything. If We Don't, By The Time We Grow Up It'll Be Gone Forever.