Life Is Made Up Of Three Kinds

There Are Ways Of Being Abandoned Even When Your Parents Are Right There.

I Was The Sort Of Kid Who Spent A Sunday Afternoon Prying Little Trees Out Of The Foundation Of His Parents' House. I Should Have Given In To The Inevitable Truth That This Was The Sort Of Person I Would Become, In The End, But I Kept Fighting It.

I Want To Hear What's Happened To You," She Said Evenly After A While. She Gestured In The Direction, Down River, Of The Butcher Shop. "it's Just That There Is Nowhere Else To Start," She Said Gently. "niether Of Us Is The Same. But I'm Different Because Of Small, Good, Manageable Things. You're Different Because ... Things I Don't Know.

Old Love, Middle Love, The Kind Of Love That Knows Itself And Knows That Nothing Lasts, Is A Desperate Shared Wildness.

At Times The Whole Sky Was Ringed In Shooting Points And Puckers Of Light Gathering And Falling, Pulsing, Fading, Rhythmical As Breathing. All Of A Piece. As If The Sky Were A Pattern Of Nerves And Our Thought And Memories Traveled Across It. As If The Sky Were One Gigantic Memory For Us All.