That Evening I Rode Downtown On An

I’d Spent My Whole Life Waiting To Awake On An Ordinary Morning In The Town That Was Destined To Be My Home, In The Arms Of The Woman I Was Destined To Love, Knowing The People And Doing The Work That Would Make Up The Changing But Essentially Invariable Landscape Of My Particular Destiny.

It Was The Kind Of Promise A Father Makes Easily And Sincerely, Knowing At The Same Time That It Will Be Impossible To Keep. The Truth Of Some Promises Is Not As Important As Whether Or Not You Can Believe In Them, With All Your Heart. A Game Of Baseball Can't Really Make A Summer Day Last Forever. A Home Run Can't Really Heal All The Broken Places In Our World, Or In A Single Human Heart. And There Was No Way That Mr. Feld Could Keep His Promise Never To Leave Ethan Again. All Parents Leave Their Children One Day.

What's Going To Be Hard For Me Is To Try To Divorce Myself As Much As Possible From What I Wrote. I'll Have To Approach It Simply As Raw Material And Try To Craft A Film Script Out Of It.

Procrastination Is Something You Do Yourself. You Know: "i Gotta Sharpen These Pencils Before I Start. I Got 20 Pencils, They're Looking Kinda Dull." Well, The Pencils Aren't Calling You And Alluring You And Inviting You And Offering You Anything. They're Just Sitting There. You're The One Who's Procrastinating.

The Midnight Disease Is A Kind Of Emotional Insomnia; At Ever Conscious Moment Its Victim—even If He Or She Writes At Dawn, Or In The Middle Of The Afternoon—feels Like A Person Lying In A Sweltering Bedroom, With The Window Thrown Open, Looking Up At A Sky Filled With Stars And Airplanes, Listening To The Narrative Of A Rattling Blind, An Ambulance, A Fly Trapped In A Coke Bottle, While All Around Him The Neighbours Soundly Sleep.