Alone

Joan Didion writes a simple four-page essay on why she writes. She stole it, just as I plan to do here, now.

I was never big on the color myself, 
but he liked it, 
he liked light orange, 
like creamsicles,
You know the gross sticky mess on a stick, 
losing someone is like a creamsicle, 

Hemingway states: 
"In those days you did not really need anything, 
not even the rabbit's foot, 
but it was good to feel it in your pocket." 
Rabbit's foot, 
luck.