I Read A Book Called The Art

Now I No Longer Believe That People's Secrets Are Defined And Communicable, Or Their Feelings Full-blown And Easy To Recognize.

Why Is It A Surprise To Find That People Other Than Ourselves Are Able To Tell Lies?

For We Did Makeup. But We Didn't Forgive Each Other. And We Didn't Take Steps. And It Got To Be Too Late And We Saw That Each Of Us Had Invested Too Much In Being In The Right And We Walked Away And It Was A Relief.

I Sit Watching The Brown Oceanic Waves Of Dry Country Rising Into The Foothills And I Weep Monotonously, Seasickly. Life Is Not Like The Dim Ironic Stories I Like To Read, It Is Like A Daytime Serial On Television. The Banality Will Make You Weep As Much As Anything Else.

I Would Really Hope This Would Make People See The Short Story As An Important Art, Not Just Something You Played Around With Until You Got A Novel.