Ordinary Parties, He Thought, Were Subtle Games

Anyway, There's Something Wrong With Everybody And It's Up To You To Know What You Can Handle.

It Is My Feeling That A Story Is Not Finished Until It Is Read, And That The Reader Finishes It Through His Or Her Life Experience, Prejudices, Worldview And Thoughts.

If You Get The Landscape Right, The Characters Will Step Out Of It, And They'll Be In The Right Place.

But The Only Rhyme He Could Summon For 'out' Was 'sauerkraut,' Which Lacked Poetic Glory. He Let It Go. The Right Line Would Come In Time. That Was The Thing About Poetry. It Crept Up Through The Draws And Coulees Of The Brain.

Everybody That Went Away Suffered A Broken Heart. "i'm Coming Back Some Day," They All Wrote. But Never Did. The Old Life Was Too Small To Fit Anymore.