I Can Run Fast When I Want

Part Of Me Still Loves. More Of Me Doesn't.

She Is Sitting On Frozen Ground Wrapped In A Blanket, Her Pale Skin Shining. She Smiles And She Stands And Without Words, She Steps Forward, Opens The Blanket, Envelops Me Within It And Within Her And Within Myself. She Kisses My Cheek, The One Not Torn, She Wraps Me And She Holds Me. Her Arms Are Thin But Strong. She Whispers In My Ear, "i'm Glad You're Here.

I Would Like To Be Soft And Warm. I Would Be Terrified To Be That Way. I Could Be Hurt If I Were Soft And Warm. I Could Be Hurt By Something Other Than Myself. It Is Harder To Be Soft Than It Is To Be Hard. I Could Be Hurt By Something Other Than Myself.

I Just Started Trying To Figure Out How To Write [something] Which Was Unlike Anything Anybody Had Ever Seen, And Once I Felt Like I Had Figured That Out I Tried To Figure Out What Kind Of Book I Could Write That Would Be Unlike Anything Anybody Had Ever Seen. When I Started Writing A Million Little Pieces I Felt Like It Was The Right Story With The Style I Had Been Looking For, And I Just Kept Going.

I Don't Write With An Outline. I Don't Often Know What I'm Going To Do As I'm Writing. And I Do Everything By Feel And By Instinct.