This Is Not My Life. These Are

It Is Not Fashionable Anymore, I Suppose, To Have A Regard For One's Mother In The Way My Brother And I Had Then, In The Mid-1950s, When The Noise Outside The Window Was Mostly Wind And Sea Chime.

We Seldom Know What We're Hearing When We Hear Something For The First Time, But One Thing Is Certain: We Hear It As We Will Never Hear It Again. We Return To The Moment To Experience It, I Suppose, But We Can Never Really Find It, Only Its Memory, The Faintest Imprint Of What Really Was, What It Meant.

Pain's Nothing. Pain's What You Give, Not What You Get.

The World Does Not Turn Without Moments Of Grace. Who Cares How Small.

I Want The Younger Writer To Know That She Or He Is Meaningful, That What They Have To Say Is Powerful In This World. But They Can't Come Indoors, They Can't Close The Curtains, They Can't, Like, Lock Themselves Away From The World And Say Nothing.