I Have A Painter's Memory. I Can

Words Are Nets Through Which All Truth Escapes.

My Life Was Incoherent To Me. I Felt It Quivering, Spitting Out Broken Teeth.

In My Early Twenties, That's When I Really Began To Write. Before That, I Was Too Busy Working, Keeping Myself Going.

There Was No Way To Grasp The Reality Of The Present Which Slid Away Each Second, Invisible As Air; Reality Only Existed After The Fact, In One's Vision Of The Past.

People Steal Into One's Consciousness And Occupy What Seems, In Retrospect, To Have Been Their Place All Along.