It's Painful To Consider Anything But Writing.

In The World I Notice Persons Are Nearly Always Stressed And Have No Time...i Don't Know How Persons With Jobs Do The Jobs And All The Living As Well...i Guess The Time Gets Spread Very Thin Like Butter All Over The World, The Roads And Houses And Playgrounds And Stores, So There's Only A Little Smear Of Time On Each Place, Then Everyone Has To Hurry On To The Next Bit.

Everybody's Damaged By Something.

Scared Is What You're Feeling. Brave Is What You're Doing.

When People Write To Me With Stories, They Are Never Ones That Work For Me. There's Something Mysterious About Which Ones Catch You.

Ma's Still Nodding. "you're The One Who Matters, Though. Just You." I Shake My Head Till It's Wobbling Because There's No Just Me.