I Think Of My Pile Of Old

Even The Solitude, I've Actually Grown To Quite Like... I Do Like The Feeling Of Getting Into My Little Car, Knowing For The Next Couple Of Hours I'll Have Only The Roads, The Big Gray Sky And My Daydreams For Company.

People Were Incredibly Kind To Our Family And Went Out Of Their Way To Help.

And If These Incidents Now Seem Full Of Significance And All Of A Piece, It's Probably Because I'm Looking At Them In The Light Of What Came Later.

The Fantasy Never Got Beyond That—i Didn’t Let It—and Though The Tears Rolled Down My Face, I Wasn’t Sobbing Or Out Of Control. I Just Waited A Bit, Then Turned Back To The Car, To Drive Off To Wherever It Was I Was Supposed To Be.

I Like The Fact That By Mimicking The Way Memory Works, A Writer Can Actually Write In A Fluid Way - One Solid Scene Doesn't Have To Fall On Another Solid Scene, You Can Just Have A Fragment That Then Dovetails Into Another One That Took Place 30 Years Apart From It.