You Made Her Apologize For Sickness. For

I Could See My Face, Crying, In Her Blank Eye.

I Wanted To Say Something To Cheer Her Up. I Had A Feeling That Cheering Her Up Might Be A Lot Of Work. I Was Thinking Of How Sometimes, Trying To Say The Right Thing To People, It’s Like Some Kind Of Brain Surgery, And You Have To Tweak Exactly The Right Part Of The Lobe. Except With Talking, It’s More Like Brain Surgery With Old, Rusted Skewers And Things, Maybe Like Those Things You Use To Eat Lobster, But Brown. And You Have To Get Exactly The Right Place, And You’re Touching Around In The Brain But The Patient, She Keeps Jumping And Saying, “ow.

...they Told Me Of Color, That It Was An Illusion Of The Eye, An Event In The Perceiver's Mind, Not In The Object; They Told Me That Color Had No Reality; Indeed, They Told Me That Color Did Not Inhere In A Physical Body Any More Than Pain Was In A Needle. And Then They Imprisoned Me In Darkness; And Though There Was No Color There, I Still Was Black, And They Still Were White; And For That, They Bound And Gagged Me.

The Sky Was As Blue As A Stupid Postcard, And The Islands Were As Green As Islands.

I Eat Broccoli. I Think About The Plot. I Pace In Circles For Hours, Counter-clockwise, Listening To Music. I Try To Think Of One Detail In The Scene I'm About To Write That I'm Really Excited About Writing. Until I Can Come Up With That One Detail, I Pace.