I'm Often Saddened And Dismayed To See

She Knows, Now, Absolutely, Hearing The White Noise That Is London, That Damien's Theory Of Jet Lag Is Correct: That Her Mortal Soul Is Leagues Behind Her, Being Reeled In On Some Ghostly Umbilical Down The Vanished Wake Of The Plane That Brought Her Here, Hundreds Of Thousands Of Feet Above The Atlantic. Souls Can't Move That Quickly, And Are Left Behind, And Must Be Awaited, Upon Arrival, Like Lost Luggage.

I'm Not The Only One: Witness Pokemon! They Still Keep Coming Up With This Stuff That Just Rivets Us In Unexpected Areas.

I've Never Actually Been A Collector. I Like The Learning-curve, But I Buy Things, Sell Them To Finance Other Things.

People Who Feel Safer With A Gun Than With Guaranteed Medical Insurance Don't Yet Have A Fully Adult Concept Of Scary.

The Most Common Human Act That Writing A Novel Resembles Is Lying. The Working Novelist Lies Daily, Very Complexly, And At Great Length.