In My Writing, I Want To Be

How Could I Do It, How Could A Person Go That Low? And I Understand Your Question, To Which I Reply, Are You Kidding? That's Nothing. I'd Been Much Lower Than That. And I Expected To See Myself Do Worse.

That World! These Days It's All Been Erased And They've Rolled It Up Like A Scroll And Put It Away Somewhere. Yes, I Can Touch It With My Fingers. But Where Is It?

I Feel Very Privileged To Hear How Somebody Used To Run Around Stickin' People Up And Stealing Cars, And Now They're Gettin' Their Life Back Together... I Just Love The Stories. The Stories Of The Fallen World, They Excite Us. That's The Interesting Stuff.

She Had Nothing In This World But Her Two Hands And Her Crazy Love For Jesus, Who Seemed, For His Part, Never To Have Heard Of Her.

Down The Hall Came The Wife. She Was Glorious, Burning. She Didn't Know Yet That Her Husband Was Dead. We Knew. That's What Gave Her Such Power Over Us. The Doctor Took Her Into A Room With A Desk At The End Of The Hall, And From Under The Closed Door A Slab Of Brilliance Radiated As If, By Some Stupendous Process, Diamonds Were Being Incinerated In There. What A Pair Of Lungs! She Shrieked As I Imagined An Eagle Would Shriek. It Felt Wonderful To Be Alive To Hear It! I've Gone Looking For That Feeling Everywhere.