The Key, I Suppose, Has

There's Something About Sober Living And Sober Thinking, About Facing Long Afternoons Without The Numbing Distraction Of Anesthesia That Disabuses You Of The Belief In The Externals, Shows You That Strength And Hope Come Not From Circumstances Or The Acquisition Of Things, But From The Simple Accumulation Of Active Experience, From Gritting The Teeth And Checking The Items Off The List, One By One, Even If It's Painful And You're Afraid.

But Then The Wine Came, One Glass And Then A Second Glass. And Somewhere During That Second Drink, The Switch Was Flipped. The Wine Gave Me A Melting Feeling, A Warm Light Sensation In My Head, And I Felt Like Safety Itself Had Arrived In That Glass, Poured Out From The Bottle And Allowed To Spill Out Between Us.

When You Quit Drinking You Stop Waiting.

Dogs Are Fantasies That Don't Disappoint.

Love—the Desire To Love And Be Loved, To Hold And Be Held, To Give Love Even If Your Experience As A Recipient Has Been Compromised Or Incomplete—is The Constant On The Continuum Of Hunger, It's What Links The Anorexic To The Garden-variety Dieter, It's The Persistent Pulse Of Need And Yearning Behind The Reach For Food, For Sex, For Something.