My Best Stories Come Out Of Nowhere,

The Point Is To Strip Down, Get Protestant, Then Even More Naked. Walk Over Scorched Bricks To Find Your Own Soul. Your Heart A Searching Dog In The Rubble.

The Wild Stuff Is All So Overrated. Drinking, You Don't Feel Good All The Time. There's A Lot Of Down, A Lot Of Misery.

When You're Not Involved, Other People's Unhappiness Seems To Be About The Funniest Damn Thing On Earth Because You Think You Can Solve It, That You Are God, That You Are Above This, And That Their Unhappiness Is Just Such Useless Toil And Agony. If It's You, It Ceases To Be A Comedy.

I Don't Write Under The Ghost Of Faulkner. I Live In The Same Town And Find His Life And Work Inspiring, But That's It. I Have A Motorcycle And Tool Along The Country Lanes. I Travel At My Own Speed.

I Do Believe That As You Write More And Age, The Arrogance And Most Of The Vanity Goes. Or It Is A Vanity Met With Vast Gratitude, That You Were Hit By Something As You Stood In The Way Of It, That Anybody Is Listening.