I Guess My Writing Has Changed As

Then I Said Something. I Said, Suppose, Just Suppose, Nothing Had Ever Happened. Suppose This Was For The First Time. Just Suppose. It Doesn't Hurt To Suppose. Say None Of The Other Had Ever Happened. You Know What I Mean? Then What? I Said.

But He Stays By The Window, Remembering That Life. They Had Laughed. They Had Leaned On Each Other And Laughed Until The Tears Had Come, While Everything Else—the Cold And Where He'd Go In It—was Outside, For A While Anyway.

It's Akin To Style, What I'm Talking About, But It Isn't Style Alone. It Is The Writer's Particular And Unmistakable Signature On Everything He Writes. It Is His World And No Other. This Is One Of The Things That Distinguishes One Writer From Another. Not Talent. There's Plenty Of That Around. But A Writer Who Has Some Special Way Of Looking At Things And Who Gives Artistic Expression To That Way Of Looking: That Writer May Be Around For A Time.

You're A Beautiful Drunk, Daughter. But You're A Drunk.

I Am A Cigarette With A Body Attached To It