Come Sleep With Me: We Won't Make

When One Wants To Write, One Writes. If One Is Condemned To Write, One Writes.

The Fantastic Breaks The Crust Of Appearance … Something Grabs Us By The Shoulders To Throw Us Outside Ourselves. I Have Always Known That The Big Surprises Await Us Where We Have Learned To Be Surprised By Nothing, That Is, Where We Are Not Shocked By Ruptures In The Order.

Only In Dreams, In Poetry, In Play Do We Sometimes Arrive At What We Were Before We Were This Thing That, Who Knows, We Are.

The Short-story Writer Knows That He Can't Proceed Cumulatively, That Time Is Not His Ally. His Only Solution Is To Work Vertically, Heading Up Or Down In Literary Space.

Of All Our Feelings The Only One Which Really Doesn't Belong To Us Is Hope. Hope Belongs To Life, It's Life Itself Defending Itself. Etcetera.