My Imagination Is My Polestar; I Steer

Horror Fiction Shows Us That The Control We Believe We Have Is Purely Illusory, And That Every Moment We Teeter On Chaos And Oblivion.

Even Winter — The Hardest Season, The Most Implacable — Dreams, As February Creeps On, Of The Flame That Will Presently Melt It Away. Everything Tires With Time, And Starts To Seek Some Opposition, To Save It From Itself.

For A Writer, And Particularly A Writer Of My Genre, Which Is The Fantastical, I Think That It's To My Advantage To Feel Remote From And Disconnected From The World Of Deal Making.

The Great Grey Beast February Had Eaten Harvey Swick Alive.

O Little One, My Little One, Come With Me, Your Life Is Done. Forget The Future, Forget The Past. Life Is Over: Breathe Your Last.