In A World Of Monotonous Horror There

In A World Of Monotonous Horror There Could Be No Salvation In Wild Dreaming.

Failures Plagued Me. Things I Had Omitted Or Ignored, Neglected. What I Should Have Given And Hadn’t. I Felt The Biting Pang Of Every Unfulfillment.

When I'm Writing, Especially When I'm Writing In First Person, I Don't Think About The Characterization, Or How They Are Going To Express Themselves, I Just Express My Own Approach To These Things. I Think Most Writers Can Never Divorce Themselves From Their Private Lives And Personas; They Are The Ones That Are Writing. And The More They Remove Themselves From Their Own Persona, The More, Perhaps, Mechanical The Work Becomes.

(after Death.) So Few People Who Come Across, Possess Awareness Of Any Kind. All They Bring Along With Them Are Worthless Values. All They Desire Is Continuation Of What They Had In Life No Matter How Misguided Or Degraded. . . Will Those People Ever Progress, Even With Our Help?

Memory Was Such A Worthless Thing, Really. Nothing It Dealt With Was Attainable. It Was Concerned With Phantom Acts And Feelings, With All That Was Uncapturable Except In Thought. It Was Without Satisfaction.