A Short Story Is Like A Kiss

I Think A Lot Of Times Dreams Are Nothing More Than A Kind Of Mental Or Spiritual Flatulence. They're A Way Of Relieving Pressure.

The Redness Was Going Out Of The Light Now, The Remains Of The Day Were A Fading Pink, The Color Of Wild Roses.

As Far As Where I Go When I Die, The Concept That I Am Simple Going To Flick Out, Like A Light Bulb, To Me Is Not Only Spiritually Impossible To Believe, But Logically It Is Laughable - The Idea That We Simply Die And Nothing Happens.

You Know What Talent Is? The Curse Of Expectation. As A Kid You Have To Deal With That, Beat It Somehow. If You Can Write, You Think God Put You On Earth To Blow Shakespeare Away. Or If You Can Paint, Maybe You Think--i Did--that God Put You On Earth To Blow Your Father Away.

People Seem To Think There's A Magic Formula To Writing, I Just Write 1 Word At A Time.