Chaos Needs No Allies, For It Dwells

For We Are All Bound In Stories, And As The Years Pile Up They Turn To Stone, Layer Upon Layer, Building Our Lives.

Curious,” Bauchelain Said. “what Is It You Wish Us To Do For You?” “usurp The King,” Imid Factalo Said. “usurp, As In Depose.” “right.” “depose, As In Remove.” “yes.” “remove, As In Kill.

All Art Is An Intensely Vulnerable Gesture, And It Is Made With No Small Amounts Of Risk, And Fear. So, I Have Plenty Of Sympathy For Self-defense Mechanisms, Especially Among Artists.

More Than One Philosopher Has Claimed That We Ever Remain Children, Far Beneath The Indurated Layers That Make Up The Armour Of Adulthood. Armour Encumbers, Restricts The Body And Soul Within It. But It Also Protects. Blows Are Blunted. Feelings Lose Their Edge, Leaving Us To Suffer Naught But A Plague Of Bruises, And, After A Time, Bruises Fade.

A Story Invites Both Writer And Reader Into A Kind Of Superficial Ease: We Want To Slide Along, Pleasingly Entertained, Lost In The Fictional Dream.