I've Never Flown A Kite.

That Is The Way We Decided To Talk, Free And Easy, Two Young Men Discussing A Boxing Match. That Was The Only Way To Talk. You Couldn't Let Too Much Truth Seep Into Your Conversation, You Couldn't Admit With Your Mouth What Your Eyes Had Seen. If You Opened The Door Even A Centimeter, You Would Smell The Rot Outside And Hear The Screams. You Did Not Open The Door. You Kept Your Mind On The Tasks Of The Day, The Hunt For Food And Water And Something To Burn, And You Saved The Rest For The End Of The War.

I've Always Envied People Who Sleep Easily. Their Brains Must Be Cleaner, The Floorboards Of The Skull Well Swept, All The Little Monsters Closed Up In A Steamer Trunk At The Foot Of The Bed.

I Never Understood People Who Said Their Greatest Fear Was Public Speaking, Or Spiders, Or Any Of The Other Minor Terrors. How Could You Fear Anything More Than Death? Everything Else Offered Moments Of Escape: A Paralyzed Man Could Still Read Dickens; A Man In The Grips Of Dementia Might Have Flashes Of The Must Absurd Beauty.

It Is Actually A Lot Harder To Sit Down And Write From A To Z. But For Me At Least, It's The Only Way I Can Do It, At This Point, With Any Moderate Success.

You Don't Like The Girl. You Don't Know What Color Eyes She Has, You Don't Like Her.