What Is The Ultimate Impulse To Write?

There Comes A Time When You Realize That Everything Is A Dream, And Only Those Things Preserved In Writing Have Any Possibility Of Being Real.

You Lived And Died Alone, Especially In Fighters. Fighters. Somehow, Despite Everything, That Word Had Not Become Sterile. You Slipped Into The Hollow Cockpit And Strapped And Plugged Yourself Into The Machine. The Canopy Ground Shut And Sealed You Off. Your Oxygen, Your Very Breath, You Carried Into The Chilled Vacuum, In A Steel Bottle.

The Book Was In Her Lap; She Had Read No Further. The Power To Change One’s Life Comes From A Paragraph, A Lone Remark. The Lines That Penetrate Us Are Slender, Like The Flukes That Live In River Water And Enter The Bodies Of Swimmers. She Was Excited, Filled With Strength. The Polished Sentences Had Arrived, It Seemed, Like So Many Other Things, At Just The Right Time. How Can We Imagine What Our Lives Should Be Without The Illumination Of The Lives Of Others?

I Write Down Portions, Maybe Fragments, And Perhaps An Imperfect View Of What Im Hoping To Write. Out Of That, I Keep Trying To Find Exactly What I Want.

You Can Write About Other People And Their Ideas And Life Without Having Lived It, But Even Your Perception Of That Is Going To Be Colored By What You Know And What You Experience. And This Is Undeniable.