I Assume I Don't Need An Introduction.

Yes. To Write A Novel Is To Risk My Sanity. The Deeper I Get Into The Suffering And Conflict Of The Characters, Into The Very Situations And Thoughts And Feelings That Make The Novel Worthwhile, The Worse I Feel, And The More Likely I Am To Be Severely Depressed When The Book Is Finished. There Is No Avoiding This: It Is The Result Of Attempting To Tell All You Know, To Reach For The Stars, To Write What Matters.

This Evil, This Concept, It Comes From Disappointment, From Bitterness! Don't You See? Children Of Satan! Children Of God! Is This The Only Question You Bring To Me, Is This The Only Power That Obsesses You, So That You Must Make Us Gods And Devils Yourself When The Only Power That Exists Is Inside Ourselves? How Could You Believe In These Old Fantastical Lies, These Myths, These Emblems Of The Supernatural?

I Congratulate Myself On Not Having Arrived Into The World Until The Present Time. This Age Suits My Taste.

What I Have Always Wanted More Than Revenge Is To Bring The Other Person To Recognition Of The Pain They Caused, So They Essentially Say, "i Will Never Do That Again."

It Was As If The Empty Nights Were Made For Thinking Of Him. And Sometimes I Found Myself So Vividly Aware Of Him It Was As If He Had Only Just Left The Room And The Ring Of His Voice Were Still There. And Somehow, There Was A Disturbing Comfort In That, And, Despite Myself, I’d Envision His Face.