The One Thing You Share With Every

I Resolved To Move Just A Little Bit More Slowly Through The World, To Look Around Myself With Greater Care, And To Try To Remain Conscious Of All That Was Going On Around Me At All Times.

What If I Could Give You Your Life Back; Pluck Out The Pain; And Give You A World Of Unimaginable Beauty That Would Be For All Time.

For Several Long Moments We Remained Locked Together, And I Think I Covered Her Hair With Small Sacred Kisses, Her Perfume Crucifying Me With Memories.

It Was As If The Empty Nights Were Made For Thinking Of Him. And Sometimes I Found Myself So Vividly Aware Of Him It Was As If He Had Only Just Left The Room And The Ring Of His Voice Were Still There. And Somehow, There Was A Disturbing Comfort In That, And, Despite Myself, I’d Envision His Face.

Writers Write About What Obsesses Them. You Draw Those Cards. I Lost My Mother When I Was 14. My Daughter Died At The Age Of 6. I Lost My Faith As A Catholic. When I'm Writing, The Darkness Is Always There. I Go Where The Pain Is.