Say Heat. Say Wet Between My Legs.

It Was The Time Of Year, The Time Of Day, For A Small Insistent Sadness To Pass Into The Texture Of Things. Dusk, Silence, Iron Chill. Something Lonely In The Bone.

... There Was An Honesty Inherent In Bulkiness If It Is Just The Right Amount.

Freud Is Finished, Einstein's Next.

What Terrorists Gain, Novelists Lose.

Writing Is A Concentrated Form Of Thinking.