I Can Get Pissed Off Very Easily.

How Long Did It Take For A Past To Die?

I Hate It When Something I've Had Published "inspires" Some Nut To Imitate What I've Written, Or Some Teacher Gets Fired For Having Her Students Read One Of My Stories Or Novels.

I Felt Puny And Absurd, A Ludicrous Midget. Easy Enough To Talk Of Soul And Spirit And Existential Worth, But Not When You're Three Feet Tall.

Not Only Did I Rediscover Every Experience Of My Life, I Had To Live Each Unfulfilled Desire As Well—as Though They’d Been Fulfilled. I Saw That What Transpires In The Mind Is Just As Real As Any Flesh And Blood Occurrence. What Had Only Been Imagination In Life, Now Became Tangible, Each Fantasy A Full Reality. I Lived Them All—while, At The Same Time, Standing To The Side, A Witness To Their, Often, Intimate Squalor. A Witness Cursed With Total Objectivity.

After A While, Though, Even The Deepest Sorrow Faltered, Even The Most Penetrating Despair Lost Its Scalpel Edge.