I Have Always Written About

I'm Not Immune To The Readers' Desires. Sometimes They Are My Own, Because I'm A Reader, Too. The Readers' Desire To Know What Really Happened And What Didn't. To Have A Glimpse Into What's Really The Author And What Isn't. I Think We All Have That And I Wonder About What It Means.

We Met Each Other When We Were Young, Before We Knew Enough About Disappointment, And Once We Did We Found We Reminded Each Other Of It.

That He Liked To Think Of Himself As A Philosopher. That He Questioned All Things, Even The Most Simple, To The Extent That When Someone Passing Him On The Street Raised His Hat And Said, 'good Day,' Litvinoff Often Paused So Long To Weigh Evidence That By The Time He'd Settled On An Answer The Person Had Gone On His Way, Leaving Him Standing Alone.

The Idea That We've Outgrown Ends Up Limiting Us And We Have To Make A Choice About What We're Going To Do In Our Lives.

The Truth Is That She Told Me She Couldn't Love Me. When She Said Goodbye, She Was Saying Goodbye Forever. And Yet. I Made Myself Forget. I Don't Know Why. I Keep Asking Myself. But I Did.