Upon Being Asked By A Fan How

Dead Fields Under A November Sky, Scattered Rose Petals Brown And Turning Up At The Edges, Empty Pools Scummed With Algae, Rot, Decomposition, Dust.

...for The First Time In My Life, Writing Was Hard. The Problem Was The Teaching...by Most Friday Afternoons I Felt As If I'd Spent The Week With Jumper Cables Clamped To My Brain.

The Man In Black Smiled. "shall We Tell The Truth Then, You And I? No More Lies?" I Thought We Had Been." But The Man In Black Persisted As If Roland Hadn't Spoken. "shall There Be Truth Between Us, As Two Men? Not As Friends, But As Equals? There Is An Offer You Will Get Rarely, Roland. Only Equals Speak The Truth, That's My Thought On't. Friends And Lovers Lie Endlessly, Caught In The Web Of Regard. How Tiresome!

I'd Like To Learn French Well Enough To Write In That Language.

Because The Hardest Boss A Man Can Ever Have Is Himself.