The Scolding Voice Is Her Own, So

The Scolding Voice Is Her Own, So Abrasive And Quick, Yet So Powerless To Move Her.

The Silence Is Perfect, And Yet A Torment.

The Larger Loneliness Of Our Lives Evolves From Our Unwillingness To Spend Ourselves, Stir Ourselves. We Are Always Damping Down Our Inner Weather, Permitting Ourselves The Comforts Of Postponement, Of Rehearsals

And Yet, Within Her Anxiety, Secured There Like A Gemstone, She Carries The Cool And Curious Power Of Occasionally Being Able To See The World Vividly. Clarity Bursts Upon Her A Spray Of Little Stars. She Understands This, And Thinks Of It As One Of The Tricks Of Consciousness; There Is Something Almost Luxurious About It.. The Narrative Maze Opens And Permits Her To Pass Through. She May Be Crowded Out Of Her Own Life - She Knows This For A Fact And Has Always Know It - But She Possesses, As A Compensatory Gift, The Startling Ability To Draft Alternative Versions.

Our Friendship Is Made Up Of These Brief Frenzied Exchanges, But The Quality Of Our Conversation, For All Its Feverish Outpouring, Is Genuine.