I Could See My Face, Crying, In

...for Reading, Once Begun, Quickly Becomes Home And Circle And Court And Family, And Indeed, Without Narrative, I Felt Exiled From My Own Country. By The Transport Of Books, That Which Is Most Foreign Becomes One's Familiar Walks And Avenues; While That Which Is Most Familiar Is Removed To Delightful Strangeness; And Unmoving, One Travels Infinite Causeways, Immobile And Thus Unfettered.

People Talk About The Beauty Of The Spring, But I Can't See It. The Trees Are Brown And Bare, Slimy With Rain. Some Are Crawling With New Purple Hairs. And The Buds Are Bulging Like Tumorous Acne, And I Can Tell That Something Wet, And Soft, And Cold, And Misshapen Is About To Be Born. And I Am Turning Into A Vampire.

I Eat Broccoli. I Think About The Plot. I Pace In Circles For Hours, Counter-clockwise, Listening To Music. I Try To Think Of One Detail In The Scene I'm About To Write That I'm Really Excited About Writing. Until I Can Come Up With That One Detail, I Pace.

I Could See My Face, Crying, In Her Blank Eye.

We Went To The Moon To Have Fun, But The Moon Turned Out To Completely Suck.