I Didn’t Realize That One Tragedy Can

I'm Probably A Lot Closer Than Perhaps The Contents Of My Early Fiction Suggest To A Jaded Denny's Waitress With Smoker's-lung-black Humor Than A Ghost Hunter.

Madness, As I Understood It From Books, Meant A Person Who Was Open To The High White Whine Of Everything.

I Do Think That I Have A More Flexible View Of The Interactions Between People, And Between Human And Non-human Protagonists, Humans And Their Landscapes.

Any Place, Then, Can Become A Cemetery. All It Takes Is Your Body. It's Not Fair, I Think, And I Get This Petulant Wish For Ugly Flowers And Mourners, My Mother's Old Familiar Grief. Somebody I Love To Tend My Future Grave. Probably This Is The Wrong Thing To Be Wishing For.

Regret Is A Pilgrimage Back To The Place Where I Was Free To Choose.