I Keep One Simple Rule That I

My Inner Chemistry Had Been Hijacked By A Mad Scientist, Who Poured The Fizzy, Volatile Contents Of My Heart From A Test Tube Marked Sober Reality Into Another Labeled Sunny Delusion, And Back Again, Faster And Faster, Until The Floor Of My Life Was Slick With Spillage.

I Never Take Any Notes Or Draw Charts Or Make Elaborate Diagrams, But I Hold An Image Of The Shape Of A Book In My Head And Work From That Mental Hologram.

I Met Someone Who Lives In An Elevator.

Novelists Get To Direct The Perfect Films. We Get To Cast Every Part. We Dress The Set Exactly As We Wish.

How Often Had That Hydrant Even Been Opened? Did You Jet Water Through A Car Window, What, Twice At Best? Summer Burned Just A Few Afternoons Long, In The End. As For Flying, Dose Never Even Glanced At The Sky. Flying Was A Summer Within A Summer, A Whim. So Why Think Of It At All?