My Mother Thought Of My Father As

Writing Poetry And Reading Books Causes Brain Damage.

She Had Awakened Something In Him That Had Slumbered Far Too Long. Not Only Did He Feel Passion, He Felt The Return Of Hope.

The Fruit Tasted Foreign But Indigenous, Like Sunlight A Tree Had Changed Through Patience.

Every Woman I Had Ever Met Who Walked Through The World Appraised And Classified By An Extraordinary Physicality Had Also Received The Keys To An Unbearable Solitude. It Was The Coefficient Of Their Beauty, The Price They Had To Pay.

Writing Is The Only Way I Have To Explain My Own Life To Myself.