It's Easier To Die If Others Around

And They Shook Hands, Hit Each Other On The Shoulder, Then There Was Forty Feet Of Distance Between Them And Nothing To Do But Drive Away In Opposite Directions. Within A Mile Ennis Felt Like Someone Was Pulling His Guts Out Hand Over Hand A Yard At A Time. He Stopped At The Side Of The Road And, In The Whirling New Snow, Tried To Puke But Nothing Came Up. He Felt About As Bad As He Ever Had And It Took A Long Time For The Feeling To Wear Off.

But The Only Rhyme He Could Summon For 'out' Was 'sauerkraut,' Which Lacked Poetic Glory. He Let It Go. The Right Line Would Come In Time. That Was The Thing About Poetry. It Crept Up Through The Draws And Coulees Of The Brain.

There Was Some Open Space Between What He Knew And What He Tried To Believe, But Nothing Could Be Done About It, And If You Can't Fix It You've Got To Stand It.

I Am Influenced By Words And The Chewiness Of Language

I Think It's Important To Leave Spaces In A Story For Readers To Fill In From Their Own Experience.