I've Reached The Age Where

I Opened My Mouth, But Nothing Came Out. It Took Seven Languages To Make Me; It Would Be Nice If I Could Have Spoken Just One.

The Clarity Was Startling And Samson Wondered Whether He Was Imagining These Moments. Not That They Hadn't Happened At All, But That They Had Been Embellished By Details From Elsewhere, Fragments That Survived The Obliteration Of Other Memories, Vagrant Data That Gravitated And Stuck To What Was Left To Remember. But In The End He Rejected This Idea. The Memories Were Too Perfect: Take One Detail Away And They Collapsed Into Disorder.

I Knew That To Find And To Feel Yoav Again Would Be Terribly Painful, Because Of What Had Become Of Him, And Because Of What I Knew He Could Ignite In Me, A Vitality That Was Excruciating Because Like A Flare It Lit Up The Emptiness Inside Me And Exposed What I Always Secretly Knew About Myself: How Much Time I'd Spent Being Only Partly Alive, And How Easily I'd Accepted A Lesser Life.

To Touch And Feel Each Thing In The World, To Know It By Sight And By Name, And Then To Know It With Your Eyes Closed So That When Something Is Gone, It Can Be Recognized By The Shape Of Its Absence. So That You Can Continue To Possess The Lost, Because Absence Is The Only Constant Thing. Because You Can Get Free Of Everything Except The Space Where Things Have Been.

You're Looking For Ways Always As The Writer To Bring Readers Into Intimacy, You With Them With You. Photos Can Sometimes Do The Opposite, Create Distance And Perspective, But These Somehow Didn't. They Somehow Bring The Reader Closer.