I Didn't Know It Was Possible To

I Like Melancholy. I Like To Pretend That I'm Alone In The World And I'm Just Sort Of Abandoned.

Everything I Do Is Because Of Writing. If I Go For A Walk, It's Because I'm Thinking Of Writing. I Go Look At Flowers, I Go Look At The Garden, I Go Look At A Museum, But It's All Coming Back To Writing.

Sometimes When Someone Says Something Stupid, My Friends And I Just Read The Reviews Out Loud And Collapse With Laughter At The Stupidity Of It All.

The Space Between The Idea Of Something And Its Reality Is Always Wide And Deep And Dark. The Longer They Are Kept Apart—idea Of Thing, Reality Of Thing—the Wider The Width, The Deeper The Depth, The Thicker And Darker The Darkness.

In Isolation I Ruthlessly Plow The Deep Silences, Seeking My Opportunities Like A Miner Seeking Veins Of Treasures. In What Shallow Glimmering Space Shall I Find What Glimmering Glory?