The World Makes Liars Of Us All.

All Choices Are Illusions, Or If They Are Not Illusions Their Strength Is Illusory, For One Choice Must Contend With The Choices Of All The Other Men And Women Deciding Anything In That Moment.

I Had The Feeling That If I Encountered Anyone They Would Intuit My Disgrace And Would Judge Me Instantly. Nothing Is More Isolating Than Having A Particular History. At Least That's What I Thought. Now I Know: All Pain Is The Same. Only The Details Are Different.

There Are Definitely Connections Between Poems, But I Wanted Each To Stand On Its Own. I Guess It Goes Back To The Idea Of Trying To Zoom In And Out, And To Modulate, So There Are Different Ways Of Looking At Any Experience For The Reader. Even Having Short Poems And Long Poems - There Has To Be Some Kind Of Variation In The Experience Of Reading As A Whole.

I Knew That At Least A Few Of The Stars I Saw Were Probably Gone Already, Collapsed Into Nothing. I Felt Like I Was Looking At A Lie. But I Didn't Mind. The World Makes Liars Of Us All.

It Reminded Me Of Talking, How What Is Said Is Never Quite What Was Thought, And What Is Heard Is Never Quite What Was Said. It Wasn’t Much In The Way Of Comfort, But Everything Has A Little Failure In It, And We Still Make Do Somehow.