It Is, Perhaps, A Better Thing To

The Notion Of A Universality Of Human Experience Is A Confidence Trick And The Notion Of A Universality Of Female Experience Is A Clever Confidence Trick.

Vengeful As Nature Herself, She Loves Her Children Only In Order To Devour Them Better And If She Herself Rips Her Own Veils Of Self-deceit, Mother Perceives In Herself Untold Abysses Of Cruelty As Subtle As It Is Refined.

Those Are The Voices Of My Brothers, Darling; I Love The Company Of Wolves.

As For My Father, Few Souls Are Less Troubled. He Can Be Simply Pleased With Us, Pleased That We Exist, And, From The Vantage Point Of His Wondrously Serene Old Age, He Contemplates Our Lives Almost As If They Were Books He Can Dip Into Whenever He Wants. His Back Pages, Perhaps.

The End Of All Stories, Even If The Writer Forebears To Mention It, Is Death, Which Is Where Time Stops Short. Sheherezade Knew This, Which Is Why She Kept On Spinning Another Story Out Of The Bowels Of The Last One, Never Coming To A Point Where She Could Say: "this Is The End." Because It Would Have Been.