Half A Page--and The Morning Is Already

There's A Lot Of Thievery Involved In Writing. You're Breaking Into Other People's Spaces And Other People's Stories.

I Believe This. When We Meet Those We Fall In Love With, There Is An Aspect Of Our Spirit That Is Historian, A Bit Of A Pedant Who Reminisces Or Remembers A Meeting When The Other Has Passed By Innocently…but All Parts Of The Body Must Be Ready For The Other, All Atoms Must Jump In One Direction For Desire To Occur.

Her Life With Others No Longer Interests Him. He Wants Only Her Stalking Beauty, Her Theatre Of Expressions. He Wants The Minute Secret Reflection Between Them, The Depth Of Field Minimal, Their Foreignness Intimate Like Two Pages Of A Closed Book.

To Write About Someone Like Myself Would Be Very Limiting.

Men Had Always Been The Reciters Of Poetry In The Desert.