The Job Of The Artist Is To

That Is My Problem With Life, I Rush Through It, Like I'm Being Chased. Even Things Whose Whole Point Is Slowness, Like Drinking Relaxing Tea. When I Drink Relaxing Tea I Suck It Down As If I'm In A Contest For Who Can Drink Relaxing Tea The Quickest.

Things Usually Make Sense In Time, And Even Bad Decisions Have Their Own Kind Of Correctness.

In My Paranoid World Every Storekeeper Thinks I’m Stealing, Every Man Thinks I’m A Prostitute Or A Lesbian, Every Woman Thinks I’m A Lesbian Or Arrogant, And Every Child And Animal Sees The Real Me And It Is Evil.

I Moved His Hair Out Of His Face. I Put My Hand Under His Nose And Felt Gentle, Even Breaths. I Pressed My Lips Against His Ear And Whispered Again, It’s Not Your Fault. Perhaps This Was Really The Only Thing I Had Ever Wanted To Say To Anyone, And Be Told.

I Think Because I Write So Many Short Stories, It's Not That Hard To Come Up With Characters That Are Not Me.