This World… Belongs To The

The Job Of The Writer Is To Kiss No Ass, No Matter How Big And Holy And White And Tempting And Powerful.

His Whole Body Shakes With The Strain As He Tries To Lift Something He Knows He Can't Lift, Something Everybody Knows He Can't Lift. But, For Just A Second, When We Hear The Cement Grind At Our Feet, We Think, By Golly, He Might Do It.

I Lay In Bed The Night Before The Fishing Trip And Thought It Over, About My Being Deaf, About The Years Of Not Letting On I Heard What Was Said, And I Wonder If I Can Ever Act Any Other Way Again. But I Remembered One Thing: It Wasn't Me That Started Acting Deaf; It Was People That First Started Acting Like I Was Too Dumb To Hear Or See Or Say Anything At All.

I've Been To Too Many Dead Concerts. There've Been Smokin' Holes Where My Memory Used To Be.

Sometimes I Looked At Them And Sometimes They Looked At Me, But Rarely Did We Look At One Another.