There's So Much Goop Inside Of Us,

English Words Are Like Prisms. Empty, Nothing Inside, And Still They Make Rainbows.

I Make The Road. I Draw The Map. Nothing Just Happens To Me...i'm The One Happening.

There Was A Part Of Her She Hadn’t Yet Allowed To Be Born Because It Was Too Beautiful For This Place

Through This Feeling Of Helplessness Suddenly Burst A Piercing Nostalgia For The Lost World Of Childhood. The Way It Came Right Up Against The Heart, That World, And Against The Face. No Indoors Or Outdoors, Only Everything Touching Us, And The Grown-ups Lumbering Past Overhead Like Constellations.

I Was Probably 35 When I Wrote The First Story. The Voice Is Kind Of A Mix In That It Has A Young Voice, But It's Also Someone Who's Looking Back. I Like That Kind Of Double Vision.