"Mrs. Crump?" The man frowning at Madge through the screen door had stolen a letter from the mailbox earlier in the week, so he knew the surname. "Yes," Madge replied. "I'm Harold Bates from the Debt ... [+]
Your voice, too fast, chattering, clattering against my Self, breaking into my thoughts, though I try to be inviolate. Violating my own stream, teaming with your own life; every feeling you've had this week; weakening my resolve to think and thinking your words have a right to this space: you fill every last bit of it until it hurts behind my eyes trying to hold my mind separate, apart from the invading noise of what he said and she said and he did, and did you know and I did this and this is me. And I leave no space for you, my friend, to reply, apply yourself to the conversation, let alone a