Life Imitates Art -- But Badly.

By The Age Of Eighteen, A Human Has Acquired Enough Joy And Heartache To Provide The Food Of Reflection For A Century.

You Can't Study The Darkness By Flooding It With Light.

Life Is Too Short For Grief. Or Regret. Or Bullshit.

The Author: An Imaginary Person Who Writes Real Books.

The Artist's Job? To Be A Miracle Worker: Make The Blind See, The Dull Feel, The Dead To Live.