Here's A Little Tip For You. If

If You Rewrite A Paragraph Fifty Times And Forty-nine Of Them Are Terrible, That's Fine; You Only Need To Get It Right Once.

I Had Learned Early To Assume Something Dark And Lethal Hidden At The Heart Of Anything I Loved. When I Couldn't Find It, I Responded, Bewildered And Wary, In The Only Way I Knew How: By Planting It There Myself.

The Smell Of The Sea Swept Over The Wall And In Through The Empty Window-hole, Wide And Wild With A Million Intoxicating Secrets. I Don't Trust That Smell. It Hooks Us Somewhere Deeper Than Reason Or Civilization, In The Fragments Of Our Cells That Rocked In Oceans Before We Had Minds, And It Pulls Till We Follow Mindlessly As Rutting Animals....it Lures Us To Leap Off High Cliffs, Fling Ourselves On Towering Waves, Leaves Behind Everyone We Love And Face Into Thousands Of Miles Of Open Water For The Sake Of What Might Be On The Far Shore.

Here's A Little Tip For You. If You Don't Like Being Called A Murderer, Don't Kill People.

There Was A Time When I Believed I Was The Redeemed One, The Boy Borne Safely Home On The Ebb Of Whatever Freak Tide Carried Peter And Jamie Away. Not Any More. In Ways Too Dark And Crucial To Be Called Metaphorical, I Never Left That Wood.