Words. Borne On The Ever Swelling Current

A Summer Rain Had Left The Night Clean And Sparkling With Drops Of Water. I Leaned Against The End Pillar Of The Gallery, My Head Touching The Soft Tendrils Of A Jasmine Which Grew There In A Constant Battle With A Wisteria, And I Thought Of What Lay Before Me Throughout The World And Throughout Time, And Resolved To Go About It Delicately And Reverently, Learning That From Each Thing Which Would Take Me Best To Another.

Writers Write About What Obsesses Them. You Draw Those Cards. I Lost My Mother When I Was 14. My Daughter Died At The Age Of 6. I Lost My Faith As A Catholic. When I'm Writing, The Darkness Is Always There. I Go Where The Pain Is.

The Vampire Is An Outsider. He's The Perfect Metaphor For Those Things. He's Someone Who Looks Human And Sounds Human, But Is Not Human, So He's Always On The Margins.

Life Is A Tragedy, One Way Or Another. What Is Certain Is That You Die.

I Was Good And Bad, But Never Wicked.