She Pulls Away, Pats Me On The

I Can Remember Exactly Where I Sat When My Teacher First Read Roald Dahl's 'james And The Giant Peach'.

People Say I Talk Slowly. I Talk In A Way Sometimes Called Laconic. The Phone Rings, I Answer, And People Ask If They've Woken Me Up. I Lose My Way In The Middle Of Sentences, Leaving People Hanging For Minutes. I Have No Control Over It. I'll Be Talking, And Will Be Interested In What I'm Saying, But Then Someone-i'm Convinced This What Happens-someone-and I Wish I Knew Who, Because I Would Have Words For This Person-for A Short Time, Borrows My Head. Like A Battery Is Borrowed From A Calculator To Power A Remote Control, Someone, Always, Is Borrowing My Head.

I Grew Up North Of Chicago, Not Far From Where The Schwinn Bicycle Plant Used To Be, And Was Conscious Of The Fact That These Beautiful, Everlasting Bikes Were Made Just Down The Road.

Humans Are Divided Between Those Who Can Still Look Through The Eyes Of Youth And Those Who Cannot. Though It Causes Me Frequent Pain, I Find It Very Easy To Place Myself In The Shoes Of Almost Any Boy, And Can Conjure My Own Youth With An Ease That Is Troublesome.

At That Moment I Was Sure. That I Belonged In My Skin. That My Organs Were Mine And My Eyes Were Mine And My Ears, Which Could Only Hear The Silence Of This Night And My Faint Breathing, Were Mine, And I Loved Them And What They Could Do.