You Can Be Betrayed In Your Sleep.

I Read Betty Smith's "a Tree Grows In Brooklyn," All Of Shirley Jackson's Books, Which I Loved.

I Thought That Love Was A River, Endless And Deep. I Thought It Merely Happened, Washing Over You Like Water. It Was Nothing To Search For, Nothing To Force. I Didn't Understand That Even When We Can't Control Our Fate, We Alone Have The Last Say In Matters Of The Heart. We Can Give It Freely, Even In The Worst Of Times, Even When It Isn't Returned.

Are People Drawn To Each Other Because Of The Stories They Carry Inside?

This Was What It Meant To Be Human, To Know That Time Moved And All Things Changed.

You Build Your World Around Someone, And Then What Happens When He Disappears? Where Do You Go-into Pieces, Into Atoms, Into The Arms Of Another Man? You Go Shopping, You Cook Dinner, You Work Odd Hours, You Make Love To Someone Else On June Nights. But You're Not Really There.