Perhaps People Ought To Feel With More

He Sits In His Car At Traffic Lights On His Way Out Sometimes And Tries To Estimate How Many Times He Has Sat Here, Waiting At These Traffic Lights On His Way Somewhere Without You, Hoping To Meet Someone With The Capacity To Consign You To An Anecdote, To Be Eventually Confused With Others

You Know You're In Love With Somebody When You Wake Up Next To Them, Comfortable Despite Your Breath Smelling Like The Week-old Water At The Bottom Of A Vase, When You Are Terribly Excited To See Them, To Talk To Them Again, Having Missed Them After All That Sleep.

At Difficult Times Of My Life, Books Have Been An Incredible Comfort. When I Was 12, I Changed Schools And My Parents Split Up. It Was Then That I Became Addicted To Reading. A Great Writer Can Attach Themselves To Your Mind And Heart, And You Feel You Understand The World Better. As Long As You Have The Capacity To Read, You Needn't Be Alone Any More. I Remember Thinking As A Child, "if I Could Give One Person The Comfort I Keep Getting From Books, Then I Want To Write."

Listen- All That She Was Then, All That She Is Now, Those Gestures, Everything I Remember But Won't Or Can't Articulate Anymore, The Perfect Words That Are Somehow Made Imperfect When Used To Describe Her And All That Should Remain Unsaid About Her- It Is All Unsupported By Reason. I Know That. But That Enigmatic Calm That Attaches Itself To People In The Presence Of Reason- It's Something From Which I Haven't Been Able To Take Comfort, Not Reliably, Not Since Her.

You Would Love The Way He Sees You. He Uses You As A Weapon Against Himself And Not Merely Because You Did