Love Is Implicit In Every Connection. It

Every Time My Brain Parks The Car Neatly In The Driveway, My Mouth Drives Through The Back Of The Garage.

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.

We Are Unusual And Tragic And Alive.

Now I'm In Nonfiction. To Me Any Given Story Has Its Appropriate Form. There Might Be Some Story I Get Involved With That's Begging To Be A Graphic Novel, So That Will Have To Be That Way. There's Always That Matching Of The Content And The Form, And That Means Everything To Me. I Spend Years Thinking About What That Match Is Going To Be Before I Can Really Make It Work.

I Had Forgotten That, And So Many Things. How Could I Put Everything Down On Paper? It Seemed Impossible. No Matter What, The Majority Of Life Would Be Left Out Of This Story, This Sliver Of A Version Of The Life I'd Known. But I Tried Anyway.