Hell Is The Special Pain That Dwells

When You're Younger, You Tend To Be Reckless About Trying To Find Out Who You Are And What You Can Do And Should Do. But As You Get Older You Become More Accepting Of Yourself, And With That Comes Greater Contentment.

He Sits In His Car At Traffic Lights On His Way Out Sometimes And Tries To Estimate How Many Times He Has Sat Here, Waiting At These Traffic Lights On His Way Somewhere Without You, Hoping To Meet Someone With The Capacity To Consign You To An Anecdote, To Be Eventually Confused With Others

Listen- All That She Was Then, All That She Is Now, Those Gestures, Everything I Remember But Won't Or Can't Articulate Anymore, The Perfect Words That Are Somehow Made Imperfect When Used To Describe Her And All That Should Remain Unsaid About Her- It Is All Unsupported By Reason. I Know That. But That Enigmatic Calm That Attaches Itself To People In The Presence Of Reason- It's Something From Which I Haven't Been Able To Take Comfort, Not Reliably, Not Since Her.

Perhaps People Ought To Feel With More Imagination.

Combine A Left-leaning Upbringing With A Family With Direct Experience Of The Holocaust And Someone With Aspirations To Write And I Guess, Sooner Or Later, That Person Will Have A Stab At Writing Something About The Holocaust.