Her Forehead Was A Maze

What I Am Telling You, Before You Begin My Story, Is This -- Two Things: I Crave Truth. And I Lie.

Sometimes I Think About The Sly, Flickering Line That Separates Being Spared From Being Rejected. Sometimes I Think Of The Ancient Gods Who Demanded That Their Sacrifices Be Fearless And Without Blemish, And I Wonder Whether, Whoever Or Whatever Took Peter And Jamie Away, It Decided I Wasn't Good Enough.

This Is The One Thing I Hope: That She Never Stopped. I Hope When Her Body Couldn't Run Any Farther She Left It Behind Like Everything Else That Tried To Hold Her Down, She Floored The Pedal And She Went Like Wildfire, Streamed Down Night Freeways With Both Hands Off The Wheel And Her Head Back Screaming To The Sky Like A Lynx, White Lines And Green Lights Whipping Away Into The Dark, Her Tires Inches Off The Ground And Freedom Crashing Up Her Spine.

I Found Out Early That You Can Throw Yourself Away, Missing What You've Lost.

I Read A Lot. I Always Have, But In Those Two Years I Gorged Myself On Books With A Voluptuous, Almost Erotic Gluttony. I Would Go To The Local Library And Take Out As Many As I Could, And Then Lock Myself In The Bedsit And Read Solidly For A Week. I Went For Old Books, The Older The Better - Tolstoy, Poe, Jacobean Tragedies, A Dusty Translation Of Laclos - So That When I Finally Resurfaced, Blinking And Dazzled, It Took Me Days To Stop Thinking In Their Cool, Polished, Crystalline Rhythms.