I Found Out Early That You Can

You Start Admiring Someone Who's Famous For Actually Doing Something---imagine That---and I Swear To You I Will Buy You Every Item In Her Entire Wardrobe. But Over My Own Dead Body Will I Spend My Own Time And Money Turning You Into A Clone Of Some Brain-dead Waste Of Skin Who Thinks The Pinnacle Of Achievement Is Selling Her Wedding Shots To A Magazine.

One Of My Da's Tragedies Was Always The Fact That He Was Bright Enough To Understand Just How Comprehensively He Had Shat All Over His Life.

I Read A Lot. I Always Have, But In Those Two Years I Gorged Myself On Books With A Voluptuous, Almost Erotic Gluttony. I Would Go To The Local Library And Take Out As Many As I Could, And Then Lock Myself In The Bedsit And Read Solidly For A Week. I Went For Old Books, The Older The Better - Tolstoy, Poe, Jacobean Tragedies, A Dusty Translation Of Laclos - So That When I Finally Resurfaced, Blinking And Dazzled, It Took Me Days To Stop Thinking In Their Cool, Polished, Crystalline Rhythms.

This Is The One Thing I Hope: That She Never Stopped. I Hope When Her Body Couldn't Run Any Farther She Left It Behind Like Everything Else That Tried To Hold Her Down, She Floored The Pedal And She Went Like Wildfire, Streamed Down Night Freeways With Both Hands Off The Wheel And Her Head Back Screaming To The Sky Like A Lynx, White Lines And Green Lights Whipping Away Into The Dark, Her Tires Inches Off The Ground And Freedom Crashing Up Her Spine.

I Can't Explain The Alchemy That Transmuted One Evening Into The Equivalent Of Years Held Lightly In Common. The Only Way I Can Put It Is That We Recognized, Too Surely Even For Surprise, That We Shared The Same Currency.