My Heart And The Elevator, A Plummet

You Discovered Yourself And What Really Mattered Only After You Passed Through The Lens Of The Fairy Tale, Imposed On Every Human Female And Male Alike, That Someone Existed Out In The Forest Of The World For You To Love And Marry.

My Heart, To Put It More Simply, Got Nostalgic For The Present. Always A Bad Sign.

I Just Noticed Recently That In One Book After Another I Seem To Find An Excuse To Find Some Character Who, To Put It Idiotically Simply, Is Allowed To Talk Crazy.

I Don't Really Ask Of Myself A Given Word Or Page Count Or Number Of Hours. To Work Every Day, That's My Only Fetish. And There Is A Physical Quality To It When A Novel Is Thriving.

There's Something About The Rhythms Of Language That Correspond To The Rhythms Of Our Own Bodies.