In Short Stories There's More Permission To

It's Funny To Think About The Uncanny Reflexively, As An Author Who Is Perhaps Gradually Becoming Aware Of My Own Hidden Secrets. Accessing That Shadowy Territory Really Requires The Physical Act Of Writing.

America's Great Talent, I Think, Is To Generate Desires That Would Never Have Occurred, Natively,... And To Make Those Desires So Painfully Real That Money Becomes A Fiction, An Imaginary Means To Some Concrete End.

Hopes Were Wallflowers. Hopes Hugged The Perimeter Of A Dance Floor In Your Brain, Tugging At Their Party Lace, All Perfume And Hems And Doomed Expectation. They Fanned Their Dance Cards, These Guests That Pressed Against The Walls Of Your Heart.

Madness, As I Understood It From Books, Meant A Person Who Was Open To The High White Whine Of Everything.

Pain Collected Into Deep Pockets And I Was Aware Of This Painbut Somehow I Could Not Seem To Feel It. It Was Like A Body-deafness.