Stories Last Longer: But Only

Stories Last Longer: But Only By Becoming Only Stories.

First, She Wanted To Taste The Sweat That Shone On His Throat And Fragile Clavicle; Then He Chose To Undo The Tails Of Her Shirt, That She Had Tied Up Beneath Her Breasts; Then, But Then Impatient They Forgot About Taking Turns And Quarreled Silently, Eagerly Over Each Other, Like Pirates Dividing Treasure Long Sought, Long Imagined, Long Withheld.

Learning To Decipher Words Had Only Added To The Pleasures Of Holding Spines And Turning Pages, Measuring The Journey To The End With A Thumb-riffle, Poring Over Frontispieces. Books! Opening With A Crackle Of Old Glue, Releasing Perfume; Closing With A Solid Thump.

There Was After All No Mystery In The End Of Love, No Mystery But The Mystery Of Love Itself, Which Was Large Certainly But As Real As Grass, As Natural And Unaccountable As Bloom And Branch And Their Growth.

The Things That Make Us Happy Make Us Wise.