The Library Is Inhabited By Spirits That

Far Away From My Country I Would Be Like Those Trees They Chop Down At Christmastime, Those Poor Rootless Pines That Last A Little While And Then Die.

If I Didn't Write My Soul Would Dry Up And Die.

Fiction Happens In The Belly, It Doesn't Happen In The Brain.

Perhaps We Are In This World To Search For Love, Find It And Lose It, Again And Again. With Each Love, We Are Born Anew, And With Each Love That Ends We Collect A New Wound. I Am Covered With Proud Scars.

I Need To Remember To Overcome.