Anyone Who Can Not Write Should.

I Was The Green Monkey, The Pariah. And I Had No Friends. Not Just A Few Friends, Or One Good Friend, Or Grudging Acceptance By Other Misfits And Outcasts. I Was Alone. All Stinking Alone, Without Even An Imaginary Playmate.

Writing Is The Hardest Work In The World. I Have Been A Bricklayer And A Truck Driver, And I Tell You – As If You Haven't Been Told A Million Times Already – That Writing Is Harder. Lonelier. And Nobler And More Enriching.

The World Is Turning Into A Cesspool Of Imbeciles.

I Hate Being Wrong, But I Love It When I'm Set Straight.

Like A Wind Crying Endlessly Through The Universe, Time Carries Away The Names And The Deeds Of Conquerors And Commoners Alike. And All That We Were, All That Remains, Is In The Memories Of Those Who Cared We Came This Way For A Brief Moment.