That's So Her. You Know,

When You Are The Woman Upstairs, Nobody Thinks Of You First. Nobody Calls You Before Anyone Else, Or Sends You The First Postcard. Once Your Mother Dies, Nobody Loves You “best Of All.” It's A Small Thing, You Might Think, And Maybe It Depends On Your Temperament, Maybe For Some People It's A Small Thing, But For Me [...]

The Professor Husband Of A Friend Of Mine Has Likened Children To The Insane. I Often Think Of It. He Says That Children Live On The Edge Of Madness, That Their Behavior, Apparently Unmotivated, Shares The Same Dream Logic As Crazy People's. I See What He Means, And Because I've Learned To Be Patient With Children, To Tease Out The Logic That's Always Somewhere There, And Irrefutable Once Explained.

Does Being Happy Simply Create More Time, In The Way That Being Sad, As We All Know, Slows Time And Thickens It, Like Cornstarch In A Sauce?).

It Doesn't Ever Occur To You, As You Fashion Your Mask So Carefully, That It Will Grow Into Your Skin And Graft Itself, Come To Seem Irremovable.

I Believe That, In An Ideal World, Writers Would Feel Free To Write What Matters To Them Without Having To Consider Success, Failure, The Market, Etc.