It Is An Art Form To Hate

Writing Is The Only Way I Have To Explain My Own Life To Myself.

...when The Words Pour Out Of You Just Right, You Understand That These Sentences Are All Part Of A River Flowing Out Of Your Own Distant, Hidden Ranges, And All Words Become The Dissolving Snow That Feeds Your Mountain Streams Forever. The Language Locks Itself In The Icy Slopes Of Our Own High Passes, And It Is Up To Us, The Writers, To Melt The Glaciers Within Us. When These Glaciers Break Off, We Get To Call Them Novels, The Changelings Of Our Burning Spirits, Our Life's Work.

I Had Come To A Place Where I Was Meant To Be. I Don't Mean Anything So Prosaic As A Sense Of Coming Home. This Was Different, Very Different. It Was Like Arriving At A Place Much Safer Than Home.

Writing Poetry And Reading Books Causes Brain Damage.

Happiness Is An Accident Of Nature, A Beautiful And Flawless Aberration.