Their Words, Like The Music, Had The

The Worst Part Was That I Had Things I Wanted To Tell My Mother, Too Many To Count, But None Of Them Would Go Down So Easy. She'd Been Through Too Much, Between My Siters-i Could Not Add To The Weight. So Instead, I Did My Best To Balance It Out, Bit By Bit, Word By Word, Story By Story, Even If None Of Them Were True.

The Basic Fact Is That No, This Isn't Ideal. Very Few Things Are. Sometimes, You Have To Manufacture Your Own History. Give Fate A Push,so To Speak.

There's Just Something Obvious About Emptiness, Even When You Try To Convince Yourself Otherwise.

As I Rolled Over, Stretching Out, My Only Thought Was To Go Back To The Dream I'd Been Having, Which I Couldn't Remember, Other Than That It Had Been Good, In That Distant, Hopeful Way Unreal Things Can Be.

We Sat There, Not Talking, For A Few Minutes. He Ate The Moon Pie; Only Skinny People Can Scarf Down Junk Food Like That. Finally, I Said, "norman?" "yeah?" "are You Ever Going To Show Me The Painting?" "man," He Said. "you Are, Like, So Impatient." "i Am Not," I Said. "i've Been Waiting Forever." "okay, Okay." He Stood Up And Went Over To The Corner, Picking Up The Painting And Bringing It Over To Rest Against The Bright Pink Belly Of One Of The Mannequins. Then, He Handed Me A Bandana. "tie That On.