It's The World, You Live In It,

Yes," She Answers And Does Not Move. She Might, At This Moment, Be Nothing But A Floating Intelligence; Not Even A Brain Inside A Skull, Just A Presence That Perceives, As A Ghoast Might. Yes, She Thinks, This Is Probably How It Must Feel To Be A Ghost. It's A Little Like Reading, Isn't It-that Same Sensation Of Knowing People, Settings, Situations, Without Playing Any Particular Part Beyond That Of The Willing Observer.

He Wanted To Tell Her That He Was Inspired And Vigilant And Recklessly Alone, That His Body Contained His Unsteady Heart And Something Else, Something He Felt But Could Not Describe: Porous And Spiky, Shifting With Flecks Of Thought, With Urge And Memory; Salted With Brightness, Flickerings Of White And Green And Pale Gold; Something That Loved Stars Because It Was Made Of The Same Substance.

All Over China, Parents Tell Their Children To Stop Complaining And To Finish Their Quadratic Equations And Trigonometric Functions Because There Are Sixty-five Million American Kids Going To Bed With No Math At All.

As Writers We Must, From Our Very Opening Sentence, Speak With Authority To Our Readers.

I Love Movies, I Love Television, I Love Narratives Of All Kinds.