As Long As The Hummingbird Had Not

For A Long Time He Had Been White Smoke. He Did Not Realize That Until He Left The Hospital, Because White Smoke Had No Consciousness Of Itself. It Faded Into The White World Of Their Bed Sheets And Walls; It Was Sucked Away By The Words Of Doctors Who Tried To Talk To The Invisible Scattered Smoke... They Saw His Outline But They Did Not Realize It Was Hollow Inside.

Relationships. That's All There Really Is. There's Your Relationship With The Dust That Just Blew In Your Face, Or With The Person Who Just Kicked You End Over End. ... You Have To Come To Terms, To Some Kind Of Equilibrium, With Those People Around You, Those People Who Care For You, Your Environment.

But Sometimes What We Call 'memory' And What We Call 'imagination' Are Not So Easily Distinguished.

I Write In Order To Find Out What I Truly Know And How I Really Feel About Certain Things. Writing Requires Me To Go Much Deeper Into My Thoughts And Memories Than Conversation Does. Writing Provides The Solitude Necessary To Reflect On Being In This World.

Distances And Days Existed In Themselves Then; They All Had A Story. They Were Not Barriers. If A Person Wanted To Get To The Moon, There Is A Way; It All Depended On Whether You Knew The Directions, On Whether You Knew The Story Of How Others Before You Had Gone. He Had Believed In The Stories For A Long Time, Until The Teachers At Indian School Taught Him Not To Believe In That Kind Of "nonsense". But They Had Been Wrong.