Gratitude’s Got A Short Half-life, Clarice.

Gratitude’s Got A Short Half-life, Clarice.

I Think It's Easy To Mistake Understanding For Empathy - We Want Empathy So Badly. Maybe Learning To Make That Distinction Is Part Of Growing Up. It's Hard And Ugly To Know Somebody Can Understand You Without Even Liking You.

But The Face On The Pillow, Rosy In The Firelight, Is Certainly That Of Clarice Starling, And She Sleeps Deeply, Sweetly, In The Silence Of The Lambs.

It Occurred To Dr. Lecter In The Moment That With All His Knowledge And Intrusion, He Could Never Entirely Predict Her, Or Own Her At All. He Could Feed The Caterpillar, He Could Whisper Through The Chrysalis; What Hatched Out Followed Its Own Nature And Was Beyond Him. He Wondered If She Had The .45 On Her Leg Beneath The Gown. Clarice Starling Smiled At Him Then, The Cabochons Caught The Firelight And The Monster Was Lost In Self-congratulation At His Own Exquisite Taste And Cunning.

I'm Doing One Of Three Things: I'm Writing. I'm Staring Out The Window. Or I'm Writhing On The Floor.