Bias And Prejudice Make Me Angry...more Than

It's Part Of The Business Of Really Not Caring About Topping Myself Because I Really Don't Care What's Going To Happen. I Think Just Surviving Is A Major Thing. I'd Like To Write Something That My Peers, My Colleagues, My Fellow Writers Would Find A Source Of Respect.

I've Never Planned Ahead.i Just Sort Of Go Through Life Checking The Menu Of Three Meals That Day. I Never Worry About Tomorrow. It's Only Since I've Gotten Older That I've Begun To Wonder About Time Running Out. Is It Sufficient Unto Itself That I Don't Plan? Because Maybe Next Thursday Won't Come One Day. And Then, I'm Concerned About That. But That's Not Uniquely The Writer's Concern, That's The Concern Of Every Middle-aged Man Who Looks In The Mirror.

Why Do I Write? I Guess That's Been Asked Of Every Writer. I Don't Know. It Isn't Any Massive Compulsion.

Up There, Up There In The Vastness Of Space, In The Void That Is Sky, Up There Is An Enemy Known As Isolation. It Sits There In The Stars Waiting, Waiting With The Patience Of Eons, Forever Waiting In The Twilight Zone.

When I Dig Back Through Memory Cells, I Get One Particularly Distinctive Feeling-and That's One Of Warmth, Comfort And Well-being. For Whatever Else I May Have Had, Or Lost, Or Will Find-i've Still Got A Hometown. This, Nobody's Gonna Take Away From Me.