I'm So Used To Being Misunderstood.

The Photograph Of My Brother That Is In This Album Shows A Young Man, Beautiful And Perfect In The Way Of Young People, For Young People Are Always Perfect And Beautiful Until They Are Not, Until The Moment They Just Are Not.

I Can Write Anywhere. I Actually Wrote More Than I Ever Did When I Had Small Children. My Children Were Never A Hindrance.

At The Time I Was Taught To Read, It Was An Eden-like Time Of My Life. My Mother Adored Me. Everyone Adored Me. So I Associate Reading With Enormous Pleasure.

One Day I Was Living Silently In A Personal Hell, Without Anyone To Tell What I Felt, Without Even Knowing That The Feelings I Had Were Possible To Have; And Then One Day I Was Not Living Like That At All. I Had Begun To See The Past Like This: There Is A Line; You Can Draw It Yourself, Or Sometimes It Gets Drawn For You; Either Way, There It Is, Your Past, A Collection Of People You Used To Be And Things You Used To Do. Your Past Is The Person You No Longer Are, The Situations You Are No Longer In.

An Ugly Thing, That Is What You Are When You Become A Tourist, An Ugly, Empty Thing, A Stupid Thing, A Piece Of Rubbish Pausing Here And There To Gaze At This And Taste That, And It Will Never Occur To You That The People Who Inhabit The Place In Which You Have Just Paused Cannot Stand You.