Write The Unpublishable.. .and Then Publish It.

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.

I Was Probably 35 When I Wrote The First Story. The Voice Is Kind Of A Mix In That It Has A Young Voice, But It's Also Someone Who's Looking Back. I Like That Kind Of Double Vision.

And You, You Ridiculous People, You Expect Me To Help You.

The Traveling Salesmen Fed Me Pills That Made The Lining Of My Veins Feel Scraped Out, My Jaw Ached... I Knew Every Raindrop By Its Name, I Sensed Everything Before It Happened. Like I Knew A Certain Oldsmobile Would Stop Even Before It Slowed, And By The Sweet Voices Of The Family Inside, I Knew We'd Have An Accident In The Rain. I Didn't Care. They Said They'd Take Me All The Way.

And With Each Step My Heart Broke For The Person I Would Never Find, The Person Who'd Love Me. And Then I Would Remember I Had A Wife At Home Who Loved Me, Or Later That My Wife Had Left Me And I Was Terrirfied, Or Again Later That I Had A Beautiful Alcoholic Girlfriend Who Would Make Me Happy Forever. But Every Time I Entered The Place There Were Veiled Faces Promising Everything And Then Clarifying Quickly Into The Dull, The Usual, Looking Up At Me And Making The Same Mistake.