To Touch And Feel Each Thing In

All My Life I Have Arrived Early Only To Find Myself Standing Self-consciously On A Corner, Outside A Door, In An Empty Room, But The Closer I Get To Death The Earlier I Arrive, The Longer I Am Content To Wait, Perhaps To Give Myself The False Sensation That There Is Too Much Time Rather Than Not Enough.

And If The Man Who Once Upon A Time Had Been A Boy Who Promised He'd Never Fall In Love With Another Girl As Long As He Lived Kept His Promise, It Wasn't Because He Was Stubborn Or Even Loyal. He Couldn't Help It.

Why Does One Begin To Write? Because She Feels Misunderstood, I Guess. Because It Never Comes Out Clearly Enough When She Tries To Speak. Because She Wants To Rephrase The World, To Take It In And Give It Back Again Differently, So That Everything Is Used And Nothing Is Lost. Because It's Something To Do To Pass The Time Until She Is Old Enough To Experience The Things She Writes About.

. . . I Would Have Let Him Go One Finger At A Time, Until, Without His Realizing, He'd Be Floating Without Me. And Then I Thought, Perhaps That Is What It Means To Be A [parent] - To Teach Your Child To Live Without You.

What About You? Are You Happiest And Saddest Right Now That You've Ever Been?" "of Course I Am." "why?" "because Nothing Makes Me Happier And Nothing Makes Me Sadder Than You.