People See Everything Through The Lens Of

I Work Really Long Days And I Work Seven Day Weeks.

We Never Believe We're Beautiful, No Matter How Many Times We Hear It. We Never Believe It Until Someone Says It In The Right Way.

But If I Were Asked To Pick One Constant, One Quality That Seems Dependable, Immutable, Endlessly Available, I'd Say That It Was Intensity. For Nothing In Sicily Seems Withheld, Done Half Way, Restrained Or Suppressed. There's Nothing To Correspond To Say, The Ironic, The Cerebral Remove At Which A Frenchman Might Consider An Idea Or A Question, Or The Scandinavian Distrust Of The Sloppy, Emotive Response.

If Things Are Going Well I Can Easily Spend Twelve Hours A Day Writing, But Not Writing Writing, Just Thinking And Revising And Taking A Comma Out And Putting It Back In.

I Waited For Dawn, But Only Because I Had Forgotten How Hard Mornings Were. For A Second I'd Be Normal. Then Came The Dim Awareness Of Something Off, Out Of Place. Then The Truth Came Crashing Down And That Was It For The Rest Of The Day. Sunlight Was Reproof. Shouldn't I Feel Better Than I Had In The Dead Of Night.