I could argue, I guess I will, that what it is and what it feels like cannot help but converge. We never wanted a family. Take an active interest in melodrama, because realism is anyway impossible. My devices include the trite, the classic, the worn, and certainly the lie. At the same time there is weather there is this climate of thought. I quote myself, without citing my source. The chapters collect in the manuscript boxes. The boxes collect in the spare bedroom. The spare bedroom collects dust. Or I can haul. I had a conversation, years ago. So many things would have gone better had I worn these batteries behind my ears. Well now I've chosen to amplify. Didn't I confess it is my way? The scholar said she was writing about her life, but then I understood her to mean My Life. I caught her thread then. We talked about the blocks of text and the repetitions. I remarked on the unforgettable line about McDonald's and the beef eyeballs. Her face changed. She didn't remember it. Yesterday the trees on the ridge were interrupted with strips of sky, so pale it was nearly white. I wrote about them again. I've replaced them for people, at least sometimes. Turns out they have as much to say. Our configuration suits us. If we'd tried something else, we would have done something else. So there's that kind of confidence in the making of the story.