The Dead Have A Presence.

Something Is Always Happening, Even On The Quietest Days And Deep Into The Night, If You Stand A While And Look.

How Strange It Is. We Have These Deep Terrible Lingering Fears About Ourselves And The People We Love. Yet We Walk Around, Talk To People, Eat And Drink. We Manage To Function. The Feelings Are Deep And Real. Shouldn't They Paralyze Us? How Is It We Can Survive Them, At Least For A Little While? We Drive A Car, We Teach A Class. How Is It No One Sees How Deeply Afraid We Were, Last Night, This Morning? Is It Something We All Hide From Each Other, By Mutual Consent? Or Do We Share The Same Secret Without Knowing It? Wear The Same Disguise?

I Think Fiction Recues History From Its Confusions.

Stories Are Consoling, Fiction Is One Of The Consolation Prizes For Having Lived In The World.

Isn't Death The Boundary We Need?