I Love Insult, It's Always Honest.

That's How A Thing Starts Out Real Then Ends Up Just An Idea.

Even If I Seemed To Remember, I Could Not Know. For Just To Remember Something Is Not To Know If It Really Happened. That Is A Primary Fact Of The Inner Life, The Most Difficult Fact With Which We Must Live.

I Really Love To Set Things In Places That Are Real To Me.

Without Craft, Art Remains Private. Without Art, Craft Is Merely Hackwork.

Stories Come To Us As Wraiths Requiring Precise Embodiments.