I Think We've All Lost Some Kind

There Are No More Barriers To Cross. All I Have In Common With The Uncontrollable And The Insane, The Vicious And The Evil, All The Mayhem I Have Caused And My Utter Indifference Toward It I Have Now Surpassed. My Pain Is Constant And Sharp And I Do Not Hope For A Better World For Anyone, In Fact I Want My Pain To Be Inflicted On Others. I Want No One To Escape, But Even After Admitting This There Is No Catharsis, My Punishment Continues To Elude Me And I Gain No Deeper Knowledge Of Myself; No New Knowledge Can Be Extracted From My Telling. This Confession Has Meant Nothing.

You Don't Market-research A Novel; You Really Are Writing It For Yourself. It's A Hobby, In Many Ways. The Problem Becomes What You Do When You're Confronted By Criticism. You Just Don't Listen To It.

Hope E.l .james Doesn't Think I'm Being A Prankster. I Really Want To Adapt Her Novels For The Screen. Christian Grey Is A Writer's Dream.

Exploitation Is A Harsh Word, I Know That, But On A Certain Level, To Me That Is The Central Hollywood Story.

That's How I Became The Damaged Party Boy Who Wandered Through The Wreckage, Blood Streaming From His Nose, Asking Questions That Never Required Answers. That's How I Became The Boy Who Never Understood How Anything Worked. That's How I Became The Boy Who Wouldn't Save A Friend. That's How I Became The Boy Who Couldn't Love The Girl.