So Much Of The Way Books Get

Whenever Someone Asks Me About Fantasy Versus Realism, I'm Like, "i Don't Know, Guys. Did We Not All Just Descend Into Some Underworld, Watch Strangers From Our Past Kaleidoscope Through Us According To Some Pattern That Is Both Illogical And Has Its Own Strange Melting Truth, And Then Wake Up And Have A Pop-tart?" Why Are We Talking About Fantasy And Reality Like They're Opposed?

Given The Brevity Of Our Time Here, It Does Seem Likely That Our Species, Too, Must Have At Best A Blinkered Understanding Of The Shape Of Things, The Import Of Certain Events And What Distinguishes "good" From "bad" Luck.

But If You Kept Thinking About A Fight You’d Lost, Mom Said, You Were Programming Yourself To Lose Again.

I Swim With All My Strength. No Superhuman Surge, Or Pony Heroics; It's Just Me At My Most Desperate.

Madness, As I Understood It From Books, Meant A Person Who Was Open To The High White Whine Of Everything.