To Show A Longing For Anything That

I Won The Argument Against The Knife That Night, But Barely. I Had Some Other Good Ideas Around That Time--about How Jumping Off A Building Or Blowing My Brains Out With A Gun Might Stop The Suffering. But Something About Spending A Night With A Knife In My Hand Did It. The Next Morning I Called My Friend Susan As The Sun Came Up, Begged Her To Help Me. I Don't Think A Woman In The Whole History Of My Family Had Ever Done That Before, Had Ever Sat In The Middle Of The Road Like That And Said, In The Middle Of Her Life, "i Cannot Walk Another Step Further--somebody Has To Help Me.

The Best We Can Do Then, In Response To Our Incomprehensible And Dangerous World, Is To Practice Holding Equilibrium Internally - No Matter What Insanity Is Transpiring Out There.

She Followed The Pleasure Where It Led. She Had No Weight, No Name, No Thoughts, No History. Then Came A Burst Of Phosphorescence, As Though A Firework Had Discharged Behind Her Eyes, And It Was Over. She Felt Quiet And Warm. For The First Conscious Moment Of Her Life, Her Mind Was Free From Wonder, Free From Worry, Free From Work Or Puzzlement. Then, From The Middle Of That Marvelous Furred Stillness, A Thought Took Shape, Took Hold, Took Over. I Shall Have To Do This Again.

My Whole Life I've Been An Over-giver. My General Operating Policy Has Always Been, 'if It Belongs To Me, Don't Worry: You Can Have It!'

The Reality, Certainly In My Life, Is That We All Have Love Stories That Go Terribly Wrong; We All Have Horribly Broken Hearts. And Somehow We Endure. We're Not Destroyed By It.