I Don't Want To Be A Tree;

When You Look Into The Faces Of These Quiet Creatures Who Don't Know How To Tell Stories--who Are Mute, Who Can't Make Themselves Heard, Who Fade Into The Woodwork, Who Only Think Of The Perfect Answer After The Fact, After They're Back At Home, Who Can Never Think Of A Story That Anyone Else Will Find Interesting--is There Not More Depth And More Meaning In Them? You Can See Every Letter Of Every Untold Story Swimming On Their Faces, And All The Signs Of Silence, Dejection, And Even Defeat. You Can Even Imagine Your Own Face In Those Faces, Can't You?

The Image That I Remember Most Of All Is Of The Fenerbahçe Players Storming Into The Stadium Before Kickoff. They Were Called The Canaries Because Of Their Yellow Jerseys. It Was As If They, Like Canaries, Were Fluttering Into The Stadium Out Of A Hole. I Loved It. It Was Poetry.

She Looked Out The Window; In Her Eyes Was The Light That You See Only In Children Arriving At A New Place, Or In Young People Still Open To New Influences, Still Curious About The World Because They Have Not Yet Been Scarred By Life.

Writing My Own Diary Is The Best Form Of Remembrance, But Only For My Own Use. I Need These Notes; It's Like An Impulse.

When We Lose People We Love, We Should Never Disturb Their Souls, Whether Living Or Dead. Instead. We Should Find Consolation In An Object That Reminds You Of Them, Something...i Don't Know...even An Earring