Incompetency Fed On Itself.

Death Comes Black And Hard, Rushing Down On Me From The Future, With No Possible Chance Of Escape.

It's Almost Always Dangerous To Be Right Too Soon.

To Say That A Writer's Hold On Reality Is Tenuous Is An Understatement-it's Like Saying The Titanic Had A Rough Crossing. Writer's Build Their Own Realities, Move Into Them And Occasionally Send Letters Home. The Only Difference Between A Writer And A Crazy Person Is That A Writer Gets Paid For It.

Something Went Klunk. Like A Nickel Dropping In A Soda Machine. One Of Those Small Insights That Explains Everything. This Was Puberty For These Boys. Adolescence. The First Date, The First Kiss, The First Chance To Hold Hands With Someone Special. Delayed, Postponed, A Decade's Worth Of Longing--while Everybody Around You Celebrates Life, You Pretend, Suppress, Inhibit, Deprive Yourself Of You Own Joy--but Finally Ultimately, Eventually, You Find A Place Where You Can Have A Taste Of Everything Denied.

You Can Tell A Lot About A Civilization By The Quality Of The People Found In Its Jails.