What’s Writing Really About? It’s About Trying

Where Are The Gods The Gods Hate Us The Gods Have Run Away The Gods Have Hidden In Holes The Gods Are Dead Of The Plague They Rot And Stink Too There Never Were Any Gods There’s Only Death

The Only Calibration That Counts Is How Much Heart People Invest, How Much They Ignore Their Fears Of Being Hurt Or Caught Out Or Humiliated. And The Only Thing People Regret Is That They Didn't Live Boldly Enough, That They Didn't Invest Enough Heart, Didn't Love Enough. Nothing Else Really Counts At All.

The World's Decay Where The Wind's Hands Have Passed, And My Head, Worn Out With Love, At Rest In My Hands, And My Hands Full Of Dust.

The Progress Of Any Writer Is Marked By Those Moments When He Manages To Outwit His Own Inner Police System.

The Dreamer In Her Had Fallen In Love With Me And She Did Not Know It. That Moment The Dreamer In Me Fell In Love With Her And I Knew It