People Pursue Things. As Soon As They

Short Stories Are Tiny Windows Into Other Worlds And Other Minds And Other Dreams

Trees There Were, Old As Trees Can Be, Huge And Grasping With Hearts Black As Sin. Strange Trees That Some Said Walked In The Night.

My Heart… It Feels Like My Chest Can Barely Contain It. Like It’s Trying To Escape Because It Doesn’t Belong To Me Any More. It Belongs To You.

There's Not Much High And Low Culture Any More: There's Just Mingling Streams Of Art And What Matters Is Whether It's Good Art Or Bad Art.

Google Can Bring You Back 100,000 Answers. A Librarian Can Bring You Back The Right One.