...water Laughing Softly Down A Black Stone

We Stand There, Quiet. My Questions All Seem Wrong: How Did You Get So Old? Was It All At Once, In A Day, Or Did You Peter Out Bit By Bit? When Did You Stop Having Parties? Did Everyone Else Get Old Too, Or Was It Just You? Are Other People Still Here, Hiding In The Palm Trees Or Holding Their Breath Underwater? When Did You Last Swim Your Laps? Do Your Bones Hurt? Did You Know This Was Coming And Hide That You Knew, Or Did It Ambush You From Behind?

I Don't Really Know Where My Ideas Come From. I Start With A Time And A Place. That's What I Need To Get Started, And An Intellectual Question.

It Was The Hat. He Looked Sweet In The Hat. How Could A Man In A Fuzzy Blue Hat Have Used Human Bones To Pave His Roads?

We're [writers] All Afraid Of Writing Badly, And There Are Psychological Reasons, Like The Bad Interior Of Ourselves Is Somehow Being Revealed, But We All Fear That, And You Can't Write Well If You're Not Willing To Write Badly. That's Why You Have To Make Writing A Habit, So It Feels Normal And Not Strange.

But It Was Another Girl, Young And New To The City, Fiddling With Her Keys.