The Moon Is Fat And The Night

Every Hundred Feet The World Changes

When People Read His Books They Have An Uncontrollable Desire To Hang The Author In The Town Square. I Can’t Think Of A Higher Honor For A Writer.

The Pain, Or The Memory Of Pain, That Here Was Literally Sucked Away By Something Nameless Until Only A Void Was Left. The Knowledge That This Question Was Possible: Pain That Turns Finally Into Emptiness. The Knowledge That The Same Equation Applied To Everything, More Or Less.

Probably All Of Us, Writers And Readers Alike, Set Out Into Exile, Or At Least Into A Certain Kind Of Exile, When We Leave Childhood Behind...the Immigrant, The Nomad, The Traveler, The Sleepwalker All Exist, But Not The Exile, Since Every Writer Becomes An Exile Simply By Venturing Into Literature, And Every Reader Becomes An Exile Simply By Opening A Book.

Metaphors Are Our Way Of Losing Ourselves In Semblances Or Treading Water In A Sea Of Seeming.