I Keep On Hoping You Might Know

The thing about longing is the space of it. It takes up so much space, but uses so little. It's a fog of mirrors and magnifying lenses that fills every corner of your room and makes your door, your typewriter, your guitar, your telephone, all seem so far away. It's so wide that you feel lost, unable to even begin to find what you're longing for, so you wander slowly from wall to wall and watch for glimmers out of the corner of your eye, until you realize you wake up every morning facing the same direction.

Desire is something else entirely, simpler, easier. It's a burning line from you to its object, and it will lead you blindfolded through a forest. It's sharp and thoughtless and selfish and unaware, and, unlike longing, it accepts no blame.