All Of My Books Come From Pain.

I Do Not Feel I Have A Legacy To Protect.

At Columbus Circle, A Juggler Wearing A Trench Cloak And Top Hat, Who Is Usually At This Location Afternoons And Who Calls Himself Stretch Man, Performs In Front Of A Small, Uninterested Crowd; Though I Smell Prey, And He Seems Worthy Of My Wrath, I Move On In Search Of A Less Dorky Target. Though If He'd Been A Mime, Odds Are He'd Already Be Dead.

Hip," I Murmur, Remembering Last Night, How I Lost It Completely In A Stall At Nell's---my Mouth Foaming, All I Could Think About Were Insects, Lots Of Insects, And Running At Pigeons, Foaming At The Mouth And Running At Pigeons.

Eventually Everyone Has To Hit The Dark Side Of Life - Someone Doesn't Like You, Someone Doesn't Like Your Work, Someone Doesn't Love You Back... People Die. What We Have Is A Generation Who Are Super-confident And Super-positive About Things, But When The Least Bit Of Darkness Enters Their Lives, They're Paralyzed.

All Of My Books Come From Pain.