We Lose Weeks Like Buttons, Like Pencils.

It's So Easy To Print In The Midwest. You're Saving Months In Shipping And Customs, So We Have Started Printing A Number Of Books There.

We Are Unusual And Tragic And Alive.

For Years I Feared The Opening Of Every Elevator, Half-convinced That From The Opened Doors Would Come A Bullet, For Me, Shot By A Man In A Tan Trenchcoat. I Have No Idea Why I Feared This, Expected It To Happen. I Even Knew How I Would React To This Bullet Coming From The Elevator Door, What Word I Would Say. That Word Was: Finally.

How Had This Happened? Everyone In The World Knew More Than Us, About Everything, And This I Hated Then Found Hugely Comforting.

Why Do We Pursue Information That We Know Will Never Leave Our Heads?