I Hung Up The Phone, Jubilant, And

But There Was Something Psychological Happening There That Was Just A Little Bit Different. And The Other Thing Was, There Was No Stigma. Kids Weren't Going Into The 'center-for-kids-that-need-more-help' Or Something Like That. It Was 826 Valencia.

People Say I Talk Slowly. I Talk In A Way Sometimes Called Laconic. The Phone Rings, I Answer, And People Ask If They've Woken Me Up. I Lose My Way In The Middle Of Sentences, Leaving People Hanging For Minutes. I Have No Control Over It. I'll Be Talking, And Will Be Interested In What I'm Saying, But Then Someone-i'm Convinced This What Happens-someone-and I Wish I Knew Who, Because I Would Have Words For This Person-for A Short Time, Borrows My Head. Like A Battery Is Borrowed From A Calculator To Power A Remote Control, Someone, Always, Is Borrowing My Head.

I Worked At Magazines For Over 10 Years Before I Even Thought Of Writing A Book.

No. There Is No Balance, And No Retribution, And No Rules. The Rules And Balances You Blather About Are Hopeful Creations Of A Man Fearing Death.

For Years I Feared The Opening Of Every Elevator, Half-convinced That From The Opened Doors Would Come A Bullet, For Me, Shot By A Man In A Tan Trenchcoat. I Have No Idea Why I Feared This, Expected It To Happen. I Even Knew How I Would React To This Bullet Coming From The Elevator Door, What Word I Would Say. That Word Was: Finally.