Our Mothers Always Remain The Strangest, Craziest

I've Forgotten The Words With Which To Tell You. I Knew Them Once, But I've Forgotten Them, And Now I'm Talking To You Without Them.

The Words Emerge From Her Body Without Her Realizing It, As If She Were Being Visited By The Memory Of A Language Long Forsaken.

Our Mothers Always Remain The Strangest, Craziest People We've Ever Met.

In A Thousand Years Time This Day Will Have Existed For A Thousand Years To The Day. And The Ignorance Of The Whole World About What They've Said Today Will Have A Date Too.

The Solitude Of Writing Is A Solitude Without Which Writing Could Not Be Produced, Or Would Crumble, Drained Bloodless By The Search For Something Else To Write.