What is so real as the cry of a child? A rabbit's cry may be wilder But it has no soul.
Writing, then, was a substitute for myself: if you don't love me, love my writing & love me for my writing. It is also much more: a way of ordering and reordering the chaos of experience.
I am what I feel and think and do.
The sky leans on me, me, the one upright among all horizontals.
The silence between us was so profound I thought part of it must be my fault.
I'm happier writing about doctors than I would have been being one.