A Dimwit Thinks Nothing Is Funny Unless

Writing Is Like A Little Hole In Reality That You Can Go Through And You Can Get Out And You Can Be Someplace Else For A While.

Your Hair Is Winter Fire January Embers My Heart Burns There, Too.

I Simply Think That There Are Things In This World That Are Relics. We Have Unsettling Remnants Of Atlantis. They Have Found Things Off Bermuda, Great Walls And Things Of That Sort. This Seems To Indicate That There Were Races And Cultures That Went Before Us. And To Me, That's An Unsettling Idea.

Stories Are Artifacts, Not Really Made Things Which We Create And Can Take Credit For, But Pre-existing Objects Which We Dig Up.

Thin Clouds Form, And The Shadows Lengthen Out. They Have No Breadth, As Summer Shadows Have; There Are No Leaves On The Trees Or Fat Clouds In The Sky To Make Them Thick. They Are Gaunt, Mean Shadows That Bite The Ground Like Teeth. As The Sun Nears The Horizon, Its Benevolent Yellow Begins To Deepen, To Become Infected, Until It Glares An Angry Inflamed Orange. It Throws A Variegated Glow Over The Horizon.