Truth, At The Wrong Time, Can Be

Meanwhile With The Help Of An Anecdote I Fell In Love. Words Caravaggio. They Have A Power.

When You're Writing, It's As If You're Within A Kind Of Closed World.

Kirpal's Left Hand Swoops Down And Catches The Dropped Fork An Inch From The Floor And Gently Passes It Into The Fingers Of His Daughter, A Wrinkle At The Edge Of His Eyes Behind His Spectacles.

Half A Page--and The Morning Is Already Ancient.

Once I've Discovered The Story, I Might Restructure It, Maybe Move Things Around, Set Up A Clue That Something Is Going To Happen Later, But That Happens Much Later In An Editorial Capacity.