The term itself--my life--is a desperate overstatement.
The family is the cradle of the world's misinformation.
When birds look into houses, what impossible worlds they see.
Stories are consoling, fiction is one of the consolation prizes for having lived in the world.
Some nights I need to be held. Tonight I'm a listener. So nice to lie in rumpled sheets and listen. Cover me with words.
People think about who they are in the stillest hour of the night. I carry this thought, the child's mystery and terror of this thought, I feel this immensity in my soul every second of my life.