When I Look At My Old Pictures,

The Mind Is Complicated And You Can't Trace The Roots Of Its Processes, But There Is Something About Mathematical And Algorithmic Patterns That I Like To Recognize In Things.

I Am Itching To Criticize Some Well-regarded Writers' Works, But I Am Not Doing It Because I Am Perfectly Aware That My Critique Could Easily Be Reduced To Envy Or Just Plain Meanness.

I Cannot Live Or Write Without Music. It Stimulates The Normally Dormant Parts Of My Brain That Come In Handy When Constructing Fiction.

I Spotted A Can In The Corner Whose Red Label Read Sadness. Was There So Much Of It They Could Can It And Sell It? A Bolt Of Pain Went Through My Intestines Before I Realized That It Was Not Sadness But Sardines.

It's Not That War Crimes Stop As Soon As A Novel About Them Is Published. Literature Operates Slowly, It Is Always Inching Toward Bliss, Never Quite Getting There.