Killing Is Easy," Said Mo, "dying Is

Since When Does The Butterfly Ask About The Caterpillar?

He Longed For The Deep As She Longed For The Night Sky And For White Lilies Floating On Water -- Although She Still Tried To Convince Herself That Love Alone Could Feed Her Soul.

When The Heart Craved Something So Forcefully, Then Reason Became Nothing But Helpless Observer.

You Know, It's A Funny Thing About Writers. Most People Don't Stop To Think Of Books Being Written By People Much Like Themselves. They Think That Writers Are All Dead Long Ago--they Don't Expect To Meet Them In The Street Or Out Shopping. They Know Their Stories But Not Their Names, And Certainly Not Their Faces. And Most Writers Like It That Way.

I Will Try To Write Books Until I Drop Dead.