I Wrote About People Who Liked Fake

From That Time On, The World Was Hers For The Reading. She Would Never Be Lonely Again, Never Miss The Lack Of Intimate Friends. Books Became Her Friends And There Was One For Every Mood.

You Took A Walk On A Sunday Afternoon And Came To A Nice Neighborhood, Very Refined. You Saw A Small One Of These Trees Through The Iron Gate Leading To Someone's Yard And You Knew That Soon That Section Of Brooklyn Would Get To Be A Tenement District. The Tree Knew. It Came There First. Afterwards, Poor Foreigners Seeped In And The Quiet Old Brownstone Houses Were Hacked Up Into Flats, Feather Beds Were Pushed Out On The Window Sills To Air And The Tree Of Heaven Flourished. That Was The Kind Of Tree It Was. It Liked Poor People.

Because The Child Must Have A Valuable Thing Which Is Called Imagination. The Child Must Have A Secret World In Which Live Things That Never Were. It Is Necessary That She Believe. She Must Start Out Believing In Things Not Of This World. Then When The World Becomes Too Ugly For Living In, The Child Can Reach Back And Live In Her Imagination.

Those Were The Rommely Women: Mary, The Mother, Evy, Sissy, And Katie, Her Daughters, And Francie, Who Would Grow Up To Be A Rommely Woman Even Though Her Name Was Nolan. They Were All Slender, Frail Creatures With Wondering Eyes And Soft Fluttery Voices. But They Were Made Out Of Thin Invisible Steel.

But She Needs Me More Than She Needs Him And I Guess Being Needed Is Almost As Good As Being Loved. Maybe Better.