Sleep Is A Prison For A Boy

Her Life With Others No Longer Interests Him. He Wants Only Her Stalking Beauty, Her Theatre Of Expressions. He Wants The Minute Secret Reflection Between Them, The Depth Of Field Minimal, Their Foreignness Intimate Like Two Pages Of A Closed Book.

When I Began To Write Novels, I Wanted To Keep That Element Of Interaction With The Reader That Exists In Poetry, Not Just For The Reader To Be Shepherded From A To B To C To D But To Participate, And The Less You Say Sometimes, The Better It Is. You Know, It's The Way When Someone Speaks Very Quietly, You Move Forward So You Can Listen More Carefully.

There Was Always, He Thought, This Pleasure Ahead Of Him, An Ace Of Joy Up His Sleeve So He Could Say You Can Do Anything To Me, Take Everything Away, Put Me In Prison, But I Will Know [her] When We Are Old.

She Moved From Being A Young Woman Into Having The Angular Look Of A Queen, Someone Who Has Made Her Face With Her Desire To Be A Certain Kind Of Person. He Still Likes That About Her. Her Smartness, The Fact That She Did Not Inherit That Look Or That Beauty, But It Was Something Searched For And That It Will Always Reflect A Present Stage Of Her Character.

Sleep Is A Prison For A Boy Who Has Friends To Meet.