How Was It Possible To

I Forced Myself To Picture The Last Moments. The Penultimate Breath. A Final Sigh. And Yet. It Was Always Followed By Another.

I Used To Think That If I Had A Choice Between Writing Well And Living Well, I Would Choose The Former. But Now I Think That's Sheer Lunacy. Writing Weighs So Much Less, In The Great Cosmic Equation, Than Living.

In One's Youth, One Has Tremendous Access To One's Feelings. And As One Gets Older, Some Of Those Feelings Kind Of Drift Away. But So Much More Happens To You. There's More At Stake In Life.

Holding Hands, For Example, Is A Way To Remember How It Feels To Say Nothing Together.

Tell Me, Was I The Sort Of Person Who Took Your Elbow When Cars Passed On The Street, Touched Your Cheek While You Talked, Combed Your Wet Hair, Stopped By The Side Of The Road In The Country To Point Out Certain Constellations, Standing Behind You So That You Had The Advantage Of Leaning And Looking Up?