My Books Are Inert As Cordwood Till

I'd Trapped Myself In A Script.... But To Be Scripted At All Is To Be Prepackaged, Programmed, Pinned To A Page. Only The Unwritten Can Truly Live A Life. So Who I Was, What I Was, Had To Be Unwritten.

Then In October, Indian Summer, The Air Turned So Soft, The Sunlight So Fragile, And Each Day's Loveliness So Poignantly Doomed That Even Self-ignorance And Restlessness Felt Like Profound States Of Being, And He Just Wandered The Empty Beaches And Misty Headlands In A State Of Serene Confusion And Awe.

Fiction Writing Feels More Honest To Me.

Ecosystems Are Holy. The Word "environmental" Is A Deadly Compromise Itself. It's A Policy Word That Lives Only In The Head, And Barely There.

Punctuationally Speaking, Wonder Is A Period At The End Of A Statement We've Long Taken For Granted, Suddenly Looking Up And Seeing The Sinuous Curve Of A Tall Black Hat On Its Head, And Realizing It Was A Question Mark All Along.