When He Was Dry, He Believed It

When We Were Arguing On My Twenty-fourth Birthday, She Left The Kitchen, Came Back With A Pistol, And Fired It At Me Five Times From Right Across The Table. But She Missed. It Wasn't My Life She Was After. It Was More. She Wanted To Eat My Heart And Be Lost In The Desert With What She'd Done, She Wanted To Fall On Her Knees And Give Birth From It, She Wanted To Hurt Me As Only A Child Can Be Hurt By Its Mother.

If You Write Fiction, You're By Yourself. There Are Certain Advantages To That In That You Don't Have To Explain Anything To Anybody. But When You Get In With Others Who Share The Loneliness Of The Whole Enterprise, You're Not Lonely Anymore.

I Knew Every Raindrop By Its Name.

Think Of Being Curled Up And Floating In A Darkness. Even If You Could Think, Even If You Had An Imagination, Would You Ever Imagine Its Opposite, This Miraculous World The Asian Taoists Call The "ten Thousand Things"? And If The Darkness Just Got Darker? And Then You Were Dead? What Would You Care? How Would You Eve Know The Difference?

There Were Many Moments In The Vine Like That One--where You Might Think Today Was Yesterday, And Yesterday Was Tomorrow, And So On. Because We All Believed We Were Tragic, And We Drank. We Had That Helpless, Destined Feeling. We Would Die With Handcuffs On. We Would Be Put A Stop To, And It Wouldn't Be Our Fault. So We Imagined. And Yet We Were Always Being Found Innocent For Ridiculous Reasons.