I'm Like Everybody Else: Weak, Full Of

The Art Is Just Really Mysterious. If I Understood It More, Maybe I Would Write More.

In Another Universe I Probably Came Out Ok, Ended Up With Mad Novias And Jobs And A Sea Of Love In Which To Swim, But In This World I Had A Brother Who Was Dying Of Cancer And A Long Dark Patch Of Life Like A Mile Of Black Ice Waiting For Me Up Ahead.

Used To Be In The Old Days, Only The Pulp Writers Wrote Like Machines. Now Everybody Is Expected To Be Literary John Henrys. So In That Context Someone Like Me Is An Anomaly.

...sometimes A Start Is All We Ever Get.

Travel Light. She Extended Her Arms To Embrace Her House, Maybe The Whole World.