People Aren't Either Wicked Or Noble. They're

The Burning Of A Book Is A Sad, Sad Sight, For Even Though A Book Is Nothing But Ink And Paper, It Feels As If The Ideas Contained In The Book Are Disappearing As The Pages Turn To Ashes And The Cover And Binding--which Is The Term For The Stitching And Glue That Holds The Pages Together--blacken And Curl As The Flames Do Their Wicked Work. When Someone Is Burning A Book, They Are Showing Utter Contempt For All Of The Thinking That Produced Its Ideas, All Of The Labor That Went Into Its Words And Sentences, And All Of The Trouble That Befell The Author . . .

Mostly, It's Flattering To Meet Fans. As Long As It's In A Planned, Professional Meeting, Rather Than, Say, Someone Dropping By My Home, Which Is Not As Pleasant.

I Suppose I'll Have To Add The Force Of Gravity To My List Of Enemies.

I Don’t Smoke, Although It Looks Fantastic In Films. But I Light Matches On Those Thinking Blank Nights When I Crawl My Route Out Onto The Roof Of The Garage And The Sky While My Parents Sleep Innocent And The Lonely Cars Move Sparse On The Faraway Streets, When The Pillow Won’t Stay Cool And The Blankets Bother My Body No Matter How I Move Or Lie Still. I Just Sit With My Legs Dangling And Light Matches And Watch Them Flicker Away.

The Thing With Your Heart's Desire Is That Your Heart Doesn't Even Know What It Desires Until It Turns Up. Like A Tie At A Tag Sale, Some Perfect Thing In A Crate Of Nothing, You Were Just There, Uninvited, And Now Suddenly The Party Was Over And You Were All I Wanted. I Hadn't Even Been Looking, Not For You, And Now You Were My Heart's Desire.