All Of My Books Come From Pain.

Is Evil Something You Are? Or Is It Something You Do?

There’s No Grand Plan. All I Know Is That I Write The Books I Want To Write. All That Other Stuff Is Meaningless To Me.

My Pain Is Constant And Sharp, And I Do Not Hope For A Better World For Anyone.

And Though The Coldness I Have Always Felt Leaves Me, The Numbness Doesn't And Probably Never Will. This Relationship Will Probably Lead To Nothing... This Didn't Change Anything. I Imagine Her Smelling Clean, Like Tea.

I Had Dreamed Of Something So Different From What Reality Was Now Offering Up, But That Dream Had Been A Blind Man's Vision. That Dream Was A Miracle. The Morning Was Fading. And I Remembered Yet Again That I Was A Tourist Here.