Places Have Their Own Characters. . .

To Be Closed From Everything, And Yet To Feel, To Think...this Is The Truth Of Hell, Stripped Of Its Gaudy Medievalisms. This Loss Of Contact.

Clones Fit In. Freaks Stand Out. Ask Me Which One I Prefer.

She Always Had That About Her, That Look Of Otherness, Of Eyes That See Things Much Too Far, And Of Thoughts That Wander Off The Edge Of The World.

I Let It Go. It's Like Swimming Against The Current. It Exhausts You. After A While, Whoever You Are, You Just Have To Let Go, And The River Brings You Home.

The Process Of Writing Is A Little Like Madness, A Kind Of Possession Not Altogether Benign.