It's Finished. Everything Went Past, Without Me.

I Can't Tell If She's Actually Real, Or If She's Stopped Caring If She's Real Or Not. Or Is Not Caring What Makes A Person Real?

She'd Risked Everything, And Here Was The Result: The Raw, Warped Core Of Her Life.

I Haven’t Had Trouble With Writer’s Block. I Think It’s Because My Process Involves Writing Very Badly. My First Drafts Are Filled With Lurching, Clichéd Writing, Outright Flailing Around. Writing That Doesn’t Have A Good Voice Or Any Voice. But Then There Will Be Good Moments. It Seems Writer’s Block Is Often A Dislike Of Writing Badly And Waiting For Writing Better To Happen.

When The Clock Stops On A Life, All Things Emanating From It Become Precious, Finite, And Cordoned Off For Preservation. Each Aspect Of The Dead Person Is Removed From The Flux Of The Everyday, Which, Of Course, Is Where We Miss Him Most. The Quarantine Around Death Makes It Feel Unlucky And Wrong--a Freakish Incursion--and The Dead, Thus Quarantined, Come To Seem More Dead Than They Already Are.... Borrowing From The Dead Is A Way Of Keeping Them Engaged In Life's Daily Transactions--in Other Words, Alive.

I'm A Dogged Person. I Respond To Adversity With A Steely Resistance.