Part Of The Work Of Writing A

Loneliness: There Is No Organ That Can Take It All.

Why Does One Begin To Write? Because She Feels Misunderstood, I Guess. Because It Never Comes Out Clearly Enough When She Tries To Speak. Because She Wants To Rephrase The World, To Take It In And Give It Back Again Differently, So That Everything Is Used And Nothing Is Lost. Because It's Something To Do To Pass The Time Until She Is Old Enough To Experience The Things She Writes About.

He Died Alone Because He Was Too Embarrassed To Phone Anyone.

We Met Each Other When We Were Young, Before We Knew Enough About Disappointment, And Once We Did We Found We Reminded Each Other Of It.

There Are So Many Ways To Be Alive, But Only One Way To Be Dead.