Lonely People Are Always Up In The

Franz Kafka Is Dead. He Died In A Tree From Which He Wouldn't Come Down. "come Down!" They Cried To Him. "come Down! Come Down!" Silence Filled The Night, And The Night Filled The Silence, While They Waited For Kafka To Speak. "i Can't," He Finally Said, With A Note Of Wistfulness. "why?" They Cried. Stars Spilled Across The Black Sky. "because Then You'll Stop Asking For Me."

I Read Like An Animal. I Read Under The Covers, I Read Lying In The Grass, I Read At The Dinner Table. While Other People Were Talking To Me, I Read.

You're Looking For Ways Always As The Writer To Bring Readers Into Intimacy, You With Them With You. Photos Can Sometimes Do The Opposite, Create Distance And Perspective, But These Somehow Didn't. They Somehow Bring The Reader Closer.

I Forced Myself To Picture The Last Moments. The Penultimate Breath. A Final Sigh. And Yet. It Was Always Followed By Another.

When I Was With Yoav, Everything In Me That Had Been Sitting Stood Up. He Had A Way Of Looking At Me With A Kind Of Unabashed Directness That Made Me Shiver. It's Something Amazing To Feel That For The First Time Someone Is Seeing You As You Really Are, Not As They Wish You, Or You Wish Yourself, To Be.