Maybe the only thing worse than having to give gratitude constantlyall the time, is having to accept it.

Even sound seemed to fail in this air, like the air was worn out with carrying sounds so long.

Facts and truth really don't have much to do with each other.

I took out my watch and listened to it clicking away, not knowing it couldn't even lie

How do our lives ravel out into the no-wind, no-sound, the weary gestures wearily recapitulant: echoes of old compulsions with no-hand on no-string: in sunset we fall into furious attitudes, dead gestures of dolls.

You get born and you try this and you don't know why, only you keep on trying it and you are born at the same time with a lot of other people, all mixed up with them, like trying to, having to, move your arms and legs with strings, only the same strings are hitched to all the other arms and legs and the others all trying and they don't know why either except that the strings are all in one another's way.

A writer is trying to create believable people in credible moving situations in the most moving way he can.