Could We Betray Our Parents By Going

Hopes Were Wallflowers. Hopes Hugged The Perimeter Of A Dance Floor In Your Brain, Tugging At Their Party Lace, All Perfume And Hems And Doomed Expectation. They Fanned Their Dance Cards, These Guests That Pressed Against The Walls Of Your Heart.

I Want A Real Encounter With Something True And Disconcerting About Peoples' Natures.

"i'm Not Going Anywhere," She Told Me That Night. But Until We Are Old Ladies-a Cypress Age, A Sawtooth Age-i Will Continue To Link Arms With Her, In Public, In Private, In A Panic Of Love.

In Short Stories There's More Permission To Be Elliptical. You Can Have Image-logic, Or It's Almost Like A Poem In That You Can Come To A Lot Of Meanings Within A Short Space.

I Came To Hate The Complainers, With Their Dry And Crumbly Lipsticks And Their Wrinkled Rage And Their Stupid, Flaccid, Old-people Sun Hats With Brims The Breadth Of Saturn's Rings.