The Real Beauty In Life Is That

It Is Not Fashionable Anymore, I Suppose, To Have A Regard For One's Mother In The Way My Brother And I Had Then, In The Mid-1950s, When The Noise Outside The Window Was Mostly Wind And Sea Chime.

Yet She Likes Complications. She Wishes She Could Turn And Say: I Like People Who Unbalance Me.

I Want The Younger Writer To Know That She Or He Is Meaningful, That What They Have To Say Is Powerful In This World. But They Can't Come Indoors, They Can't Close The Curtains, They Can't, Like, Lock Themselves Away From The World And Say Nothing.

The World Spins. We Stumble On. It Is Enough.

The Repeated Lies Become History, But They Don't Necessarily Become The Truth.