The White May Blossom Swooned Slowly Into

Where I Went, No One Could Follow. Yet Someone Managed To Hold My Hand.

Sleep Is Uncanny, I Have Always Found It So, A Nightly Dress-rehearsal For Being Dead.

I Would Be Far More Critical Than Any Reviewer Could Be Of My Own Work. So I Simply Don't Read Them.

How Flat All Sounds Are At The Seaside, Flat And Yet Emphatic, Like The Sound Of Gunshots Heard At A Distance.

Fictional Characters Are Made Of Words, Not Flesh; They Do Not Have Free Will, They Do Not Exercise Volition. They Are Easily Born, And As Easily Killed Off.