It Was A Silence That Heard Itself,

...and It Strikes Her, As She Walks, That Borders, Like Hatred, Are Exaggerated Precisely Because Otherwise They Would Cease To Exist Altogether.

We Have To Admire The World For Not Ending On Us.

Stories Are There To Be Told, And Each Story Changes With The Telling. Time Changes Them. Logic Changes Them. Grammar Changes Them. History Changes Them. Each Story Is Shifted Side-ways By Each Day That Unfolds. Nothing Ends. The Only Thing That Matters, As Faulkner Once Put It, Is The Human Heart In Conflict With Itself. At The Heart Of All This Is The Possibility, Or Desire, To Create A Piece Of Art That Talks To The Human Instinct For Recovery And Joy.

You Can Count The Dead, But You Can't Count The Cost. We've Got No Math For Heaven.

Ultimately, You Can Only Ever Write What You Know. It's Logically And Philosophically Impossible To Write What You Don't Know.