The Smoke Alarm Went Off In The

People Hurried Past, The Others Of The Street, Endless Anonymous, Twenty-one Lives Per Second, Race-walking In Their Faces And Pigments, Sprays Of Fleetest Being.

You Become A Serious Novelist By Living Long Enough.

In Our World We Sleep And Eat The Image And Pray To It And Wear It Too.

The Family Is The Cradle Of The World's Misinformation.

I Don't Want To Do The Type Of Writing Where I Recite Biography, Parentage And Education. I Want To Rise Up From The Words On The Page And Do Something, Hurt Someone.