He Wondered How We Know That What

I Moved Through The Days Like A Severed Head That Finishes A Sentence.

I Think Of The Chimp, The One With The Talking Hands. In The Course Of The Experiment, That Chimp Had A Baby. Imagine How Her Trainers Must Have Thrilled When The Mother, Without Prompting, Began To Sign Her Newborn. Baby, Drink Milk. Baby, Play Ball. And When The Baby Died, The Mother Stood Over The Body, Her Wrinkled Hands Moving With Animal Grace, Forming Again And Again The Words: Baby, Come Hug, Baby Come Hug, Fluent Now In The Language Of Grief.

Sometimes I Can Better Describe A Person By Another Person's Reaction. In A Story In My First Book, I Couldn't Think Of A Way To Sufficiently Describe The Charisma Of A Certain Boy, So The Narrator Says, "i Knew Girls Who Saved His Gum."

We Can Only Die In The Future, I Thought; Right Now We Are Always Alive.

I'm Not First And Foremost Interested In Story And The What-happens, But I'm Interested In Who's Telling It And How They're Telling It And The Effects Of Whatever Happened On The Characters And The People.