Ah. My Story. Are You Certain You

He Had Never Missed God Or The Hope Of Heaven, But He Had Dearly Wanted Confession To Rest His Mind, Communion To Let Him Touch Something Beyond Father Krone's Dry, Shaky Hand, And Holy Water To Taste Like Starlight.

Her Face Was A Stranger’s Face, Which Was As It Should Be. Love Each Other From The Day We Are Born To The Day We Die, We Are Still Strangers Every Minute, And Nobody Should Forget That, Even Though We Have To.

Writing Has Nothing To Do With Publishing. Nothing. People Get Totally Confused About That. You Write Because You Have To - You Write Because You Can't Not Write. The Rest Is Show-business. I Can't State That Too Strongly. Just Write - Worry About The Rest Of It Later, If You Worry At All. What Matters Is What Happens To You While You're Writing The Story, The Poem, The Play. The Rest Is Show-business.

It's Really Not So Good To Have Time. Rush, Scramble, Desperation, This Missed, That Left Behind, Those Others Too Big To Fit Into Such A Small Space--that's The Way Life Was Meant To Be. You're Supposed To Be Too Late For Some Things. Don't Worry About It.

He Is A Great Enough Magician To Tap Our Most Common Nightmares, Daydreams And Twilight Fancies, But He Never Invented Them Either: He Found Them A Place To Live, A Green Alternative To Each Day's Madness Here In A Poisoned World. We Are Raised To Honor All The Wrong Explorers And Discoverers - Thieves Planting Flags, Murderers Carrying Crosses. Let Us At Last Praise The Colonizers Of Dreams.