He Could Not Wait To Get Rid

As Soon As I Knew That I Would Be All Right, I Was Sure That I Was Dead And Didn't Know It. I Moved Through The Days Like A Severed Head That Finishes A Sentence. I Waited For The Moment That Would Snap Me Out Of My Seeming Life.

The Worst Of It Is Over Now, And I Can't Say That I Am Glad. Lose That Sense Of Loss--you Have Gone And Lost Something Else.

I Told Him About The Way They Get To Know You. Not The Way People Do, The Way They Flatter You By Wanting To Know Every Last Thing About You, Only It Isn't A Compliment, It Is Just Efficient, A Person Getting More Quickly To The End Of You. Correction - Dogs Do Want To Know Every Last Thing About You. They Take In The Smell Of You, They Know From The Next Room, Asleep, When A Mood Settles Over You. The Difference Is There's Not An End To It.

I'm Not First And Foremost Interested In Story And The What-happens, But I'm Interested In Who's Telling It And How They're Telling It And The Effects Of Whatever Happened On The Characters And The People.

A Five-hour Flight Works Out To Three Days And Nights On Land, By Rail, From Sea To Shining Sea. You Can Chalk Off The Hours On The Back Of The Seat Ahead. But Seventy-some Hours Will Not Seem So Long To You If You Tell Yourself First: This Is Where I Am Going To Be For The Rest Of My Natural Life.