At Night The Sky Is

That Powers My Desire To Write: The Sense Of How Quickly Everything On The Surface Of Life Can Be Cut Away And You Can Suddenly Be Inside The Most Inner Part Of The Most Inner Life Of A Person. What Does It Feel Like There, And What Are The Regrets And Sensations And Longings, And What Is The Music Of It?

Now We'd Known Each Other For Two Years, The Side Of My Calf Was Touching His Shins, And His Stomach Was Against My Ribs. He Said, "i Don't Think It's End Of World To Be My Girlfriend." I Opened My Mouth, But Nothing Came Out. It Took Seven Languages To Make Me; It Would Be Nice If I Could Have Spoken Just One.

He Wondered If What He Had Taken For The Richness Of Silence Was Really The Poverty Of Never Being Heard [...]. How Could He Have Forgotten What He Had Always Known: There Is No Match For The Silence Of God.

A Couple Months After My Heart Attack, Fifty-seven Years After I'd Given It Up, I Started To Write Again. I Did It For Myself Alone, Not For Anyone Else, And That Was The Difference. It Didn't Matter If I Found The Words, And More Than That, I Knew It Would Be Impossible To Find The Right Ones.

How Was It Possible To Wake Up Every Day And Be Recognizable To Another When So Often One Was Barely Recognizable To Oneself?