We Write To Discover What We Think.

A Single Person Is Missing For You, And The Whole World Is Empty.

I Mean Maybe I Was Holding All The Aces, But What Was The Game?

...quite Simply, I Was In Love With New York. I Do Not Mean “love” In Any Colloquial Way, I Mean That I Was In Love With The City, The Way You Love The First Person Who Ever Touches You And You Never Love Anyone Quite That Way Again. I Remember Walking Across Sixty-second Street One Twilight That First Spring, Or The Second Spring, They Were All Alike For A While. I Was Late To Meet Someone But I Stopped At Lexington Avenue And Bought A Peach And Stood On The Corner Eating It And Knew That I Had Come Out Out Of The West And Reached The Mirage.

I Was No Longer, If I Had Ever Been, Afraid To Die: I Was Now Afraid Not To Die.

Writers Are Always Selling Somebody Out.