I Have Many Problems In My Life,

When We Realize That There Is Never A Single Story About Any Place, We Regain A Kind Of Paradise.

There Are Many Different Ways To Be Poor In The World But Increasingly There Seems To Be One Single Way To Be Rich.

Her Blog Was Doing Well, With Thousands Of Unique Visitors Each Month, And She Was Earning Good Speaking Fees, And She Had A Fellowship At Princeton And A Relationship With Blaine - "you Are The Absolute Love Of My Life," He'd Written In Her Last Birthday Card - And Yet There Was Cement In Her Soul. It Had Been There For A While, An Early Morning Disease Of Fatigue, Shapeless Desires, Brief Imaginary Glints Of Other Lives She Could Be Living, That Over The Months Melded Into A Piercing Homesickness.

Privilege Blinds, Because It's In Its Nature To Blind. Don't Let It Blind You Too Often. Sometimes You Will Need To Push It Aside In Order To See Clearly.

Richard Exhaled. It Was Like Somebody Sprinkling Pepper On His Wound: Thousands Of Biafrans Were Dead, And This Man Wanted To Know If There Was Anything New About One Dead White Man. Richard Would Write About This, The Rule Of Western Journalism: One Hundred Dead Black People Equal To One Dead White Person.