I'm So Used To Being Misunderstood.

What I Really Want To Write About Is Injustice And Justice, And The Different Ways Human Beings Organize The Two.

Out Of The Corner Of One Eye, I Could See My Mother. Out Of The Corner Of The Other Eye, I Could See Her Shadow On The Wall, Cast There By The Lamplight. It Was A Big And Solid Shadow, And It Looked So Much Like My Mother That I Became Frightened. For I Could Not Be Sure Whether For The Rest Of My Life I Would Be Able To Tell When It Was Really My Mother And When It Was Really Her Shadow Standing Between Me And The Rest Of The World.

I've Never Gotten Used To Winter And Never Will.

When I Start To Write Something, I Suppose I Want It To Change Me, To Make Me Into Something Not Myself.

I Am Not Aware Of Anything Below My Neck. I Live Completely In My Head.