Perhaps I Write For No One. Perhaps

Ten Days After The War Ended, My Sister Laura Drove A Car Off A Bridge.

Anybody Who Writes A Book Is An Optimist. First Of All, They Think They're Going To Finish It. Second, They Think Somebody's Going To Publish It. Third, They Think Somebody's Going To Read It. Fourth, They Think Somebody's Going To Like It. How Optimistic Is That?

We Pulled The Seeds Out And Scattered Them On Their Flossy Parachutes, Leaving Only The Leathery Brownish Yellow Tongue, Soft As The Inside Of An Elbow.

I Knew What Love Was Supposed To Be: Obsession With Undertones Of Nausea.

We Are A Society Dying, Said Aunt Lydia, Of Too Much Choice.