Underneath It All, You Longed To Be

Writers Are Always At The Edge Of The Inferno, And The Fire Is Licking At Our Toes. Luckily, This Turns Us On!

I Am Thinking Of The Onion Again. . . . Not Self-righteous Like The Proletarian Potato, Nor A Siren Like The Apple. No Show-off Like The Banana. But A Modest, Self-effacing Vegetable, Questioning, Introspective, Peeling Itself Away, Or Merely Radiating Halos Like Ripples.

We Write As If Our Lives Depended Upon It. They Do.

When You Start Having Lunch And Actually Eating, It's Already Over.

I Don't Think That Sex Necessarily Produces Intimacy.