Once Upon A Time There Was A

He Learned To Live With The Truth. Not To Accept It, But To Live With It. It Was Like Living With An Elephant. His Room Was Tiny, And Every Morning He Had To Squeeze Around The Truth Just To Get To The Bathroom. To Reach The Armoire To Get A Pair Of Underpants He Had To Crawl Under The Truth, Praying It Wouldn't Choose That Moment To Sit On His Face. At Night, When He Closed His Eyes, He Felt It Looming Above Him.

There Are Moments When A Kind Of Clarity Comes Over You, And Suddenly You Can See Through Walls To Another Dimension That You'd Forgotten Or Chosen To Ignore In Order To Continue Living With The Various Illusions That Make Life, Particularily Life With Other People, Possible.

That Powers My Desire To Write: The Sense Of How Quickly Everything On The Surface Of Life Can Be Cut Away And You Can Suddenly Be Inside The Most Inner Part Of The Most Inner Life Of A Person. What Does It Feel Like There, And What Are The Regrets And Sensations And Longings, And What Is The Music Of It?

For Her I Changed Pebbles Into Diamonds, Shoes Into Mirrors, I Changed Glass Into Water, I Gave Her Wings And Pulled Birds From Her Ears And In Her Pockets She Found The Feathers, I Asked A Pear To Become A Pineapple, A Pineapple To Become A Lightbulb, A Lightbulb To Become The Moon, And The Moon To Become A Coin I Flipped For Her Love.

Getting A Book Published Made Me Feel A Little Bit Sad... I Felt Driven By The Need To Write A Book, Rather Than The Need To Write. I Needed To Figure Out What Was Important To Me As A Writer.