When I Was A Child, Writing Was

Certain Stories We Carry With Us, Events In Our Life, They Define Who We Are. It's Not A Matter Of Getting Over Anything; We Have To Make The Best Of It.

I Offer Emily Half Of My Hit Of Acid- Love Saves The Day. It's My Second Or Third Time Tripping, Emily's First, And She's Understandably Trepid. Awake All Night, At One Point I Find Her Touching Her Reflection In A Cruelly Lit Dorm Bathroom, Asking If She'll Ever Be The Same. I Kiss Her Then For The First Time And Whisper, No.

There Is A Physics To The World, Which Non-fiction Has A Contract To Stand In Awe Of, Otherwise It Becomes Completely Self-centered And Ego-driven, Which Is The Death Of A Memoir.

There Are Many Ways To Drown, Only The Most Obvious Wave Their Arms As They're Going Under.

In My Experience, Whatever Happens Clings To Us Like Barnacles On The Hull Of A Ship, Slowing Us Slightly, Both Uglifying And Giving Us Texture. You Can Scrape All You Want, You Can, If You Have Money, Hire Someone Else To Scrape, But The Barnacles Will Come Back Or At Least Leave A Blemish On The Steel.