When I'm Writing, The Darkness Is Always

I Love New Orleans Physically. I Love The Trees And The Balmy Air And The Beautiful Days. I Have A Beautiful House Here.

All The Stories I Have Told You Are Finally As Useless As All Ancient Knowledge Is To Man And To Us. Its Images And Its Poetry Can Be Beautiful; It Can Make Us Shiver With The Recognition Of Things We Have Always Suspected Or Felt. It Can Draw Us Back To Times When The Earth Was New To Man, And Wondrous. But Always We Come Back To The Way The Earth Is Now.

In The Spring Of 1988, I Returned To New Orleans, And As Soon As I Smelled The Air, I Knew I Was Home. It Was Rich, Almost Sweet, Like The Scent Of Jasmine And Roses Around Our Old Courtyard. I Walked The Streets, Savoring That Long Lost Perfume.

-you Are On The Verge Of Being Truly Mad. -no, Not At All. Look At Me. I Can Tie My Shoelaces. See?

I'm Fascinated By Almost Any Mythology That I Can Get My Hands On...