I Am Just Always, Always

I Journal For About Half An Hour, And By The Time That's Done, The Business Day On The East Coast Has Begun. The Phone Starts To Ring, And The Rest Of The Day Is Spent Dealing With The Business Of Writing. My Workday Is Done At About 3:00.

Take This Squirrel, For Instance. Ulysses. Do I Believe He Can Type Poetry? Sure, I Do Believe It. There Is Much More Beauty In The World If I Believe Such A Thing Is Possible.

There Are Those Hearts, Reader, That Never Mend Again Once They Are Broken. Or If They Do Mend, They Heal Themselves In A Crooked And Lopsided Way, As If Sewn Together By A Careless Craftsman. Such Was The Fate Of Chiaroscuro. His Heart Was Broken. Picking Up The Spoon And Placing It On His Head, Speaking Of Revenge, These Things Helped Him To Put His Heart Together Again. But It Was, Alas, Put Together Wrong.

You Are Down There Alone, The Stars Seemed To Say To Him. And We Are Up Here, In Our Constellations, Together.

I Think, Oh My God, Kids Are Reading, And They Care About A Book Enough To Come Over And Talk To Me About A Book That They Care About. If I Think About It As Being A Celebrity, It Would Freak Me Out. But I Just Think, Lucky Me, That I Get To Be A Part Of This Whole Thing.