My Favorite Classes Were Always Dumb Nerdy

I Didn’t Realize That One Tragedy Can Beget Another, And Another — Bright-eyed Disasters Flooding Out Of A Death Hole Like Bats Out Of A Cave.

Sometimes, When You're Writing Sentence By Sentence, You're Not Really Sure What Footprints You're Going To Fall Into, Or What Ghosts Might Appear.

Fiction Helps Me To Reconnect With The True, Deep Weirdness Inherent In Everyday Reality, In Our Dealings With One Another, In Just Being Alive.

No, I Don’t Have To Tell A Soul About This, I Promised Myself. When You Are A Kid, You Don’t Know Yet That A Secret, Like An Animal, Can Evolve. Like An Animal, A Secret Can Develop A Self-preserving Intelligence. Shaglike, Mute And Thick, A Knowledge With A Fur: Your Secret.

My Fingers Curl Through The Holes In The Wicker, Through The Wet Grass Beneath It, Trying To Hold Tight To The Sharp Blades Of The Present. Somewhere In My Brain A Sinkhole Is Bubbling Over, And Each Bubble Contains A Scene From A Tiny Sunken World ... I Have Never Been The Prophet Of My Own Past Before. It Makes Me Wonder How The Healthy Dreamers Can Bear To Sleep At All, If Sleep Means That You Have To Peer Into That Sinkhole By Yourself. ... I Had Almost Forgotten This Occipital Sorrow, The Way You Are So Alone With The Things You See In Dreams.