I Feel Sorry For The

Often Writing Is Like A Struggle To Get Back To A Kind Of Belated, Quite Impure Virginity.

In Our Opposed Forms Of Loneliness And Self-recognition And Recognition Of The Other, We Touched Each Other Often As We Spoke; And On Shore In Explorations Of The Past, We Strolled With Our Arms Linked.

The Disparity Between What People Said Life Was And What I Knew It To Be Unnerved Me At Times, But I Swore That Nothing Would Ever Make Me Say Life Should Be Anything.

God Is An Immensity, While This Disease, This Death, Which Is In Me, This Small, Tightly Defined Pedestrian Event, Is Merely And Perfectly Real, Without Miracle—or Instruction.

I Have Thousands Of Opinions Still - But That Is Down From Millions - And, As Always, I Know Nothing.