I Guess My Writing Has Changed As

All Of Us, All Of Us, All Of Us Trying To Save Our Immortal Souls, Some Ways Seemingly More Round About And Mysterious Than Others. We Are Having A Good Time Here. But Hope All Will Be Revealed Soon.

In The Beginning, When I Was Trying To Write, I Couldnt Turn Off The Outside World To The Extent That I Can Now.

Art Doesn't Have To Do Anything. It Just Has To Be There For The Fierce Pleasure We Take In Doing It.

It's Strange. You Never Start Out Life With The Intention Of Becoming A Bankrupt Or An Alcoholic Or A Cheat And A Thief. Or A Liar.

If We're Lucky, Writer And Reader Alike, We'll Finish The Last Line Or Two Of A Short Story And Then Just Sit For A Minute, Quietly. Ideally, We'll Ponder What We've Just Written Or Read; Maybe Our Hearts Or Intellects Will Have Been Moved Off The Peg Just A Little From Where They Were Before. Our Body Temperature Will Have Gone Up, Or Down, By A Degree. Then, Breathing Evenly And Steadily Once More, We'll Collect Ourselves, Writers And Readers Alike, Get Up, "created Of Warm Blood And Nerves" As A Chekhov Character Puts It, And Go On To The Next Thing: Life. Always Life.