I Don't Think I Solve Problems In

Love Was Like A Steamroller. There Was No Avoiding It; It Went Over You And You Came Out Flat.

Maybe Sadness Was A Kind Of Hunger, She Thought. Maybe The Two Went Together.

Love Is The Pursuit Of Shadows.

I Wait. I Compose Myself. My Self Is A Thing I Must Now Compose, As One Composes A Speech. What I Must Present Is A Made Thing, Not Something Born.

It's Evening, One Of Those Gray Water-color Washes, Like Liquid Dust.