A journal of narrative writing.

The one that would have been me, would have been called Eliot. And then, After the second stillborn, she Left the name with him: either buried On Dutch St, next to the cherry Orchard, or Cremated, turned to ashes, (Listen — when I First thought I would try to write this, I had written, Because I think it sounds Nice, or looks nice, I've got A secret, old as sadness). She never knew. She always says (though Now with Evan dead too, It doesn't have The hurt it did, The sting to it she had described, saying I Told the doctor. I told him. I said something wasn't right, I knew, and saying The nurse said she would tell him to look again, To listen. He only Stepped in for a second, and said everything was fine.) She wished she knew where they took him.