The Poem Is A Cry Of The

I Lived In New York For A Couple Months. It Seemed To Me At First An Incredibly Clean Place With Well-dressed People And Washed Cars And Bright-painted Red-and-yellow Streetcars And White Buildings.

Stories Distribute The Suffering So That It Can Be Borne.

It Was Evident To Him That The World Composed And Recomposed Itself Constantly In An Endless Process Of Dissatisfaction.

There Is No Longer Any Such Thing As Fiction Or Nonfiction; There's Only Narrative.

Facts Are The Images Of History, Just As Images Are The Facts Of Fiction.