My Sustenance Is Information. My Interventions Are

My Job Is Not To Try To Give Readers What They Want But To Try To Make Readers Want What I Give.

In The Deepest Places, Where Physical Norms Collapse Under The Crushing Water, Bodies Still Fall Softly Through The Dark, Days After Their Vessels Have Capsized. They Decay On Their Long Journey Down. Nothing Will Hit The Black Sand At The Bottom Of The World But Algae-covered Bones.

People Have Wanted To Narrate Since First We Banged Rocks Together & Wondered About Fire. There’ll Be Tellings As Long As There Are Any Of Us Here, Until The Stars Disappear One By One Like Turned-out Lights.

My Google-fu Is Strong.

Old Stories Would Tell How Weavers Would Kill Each Other Over Aesthetic Disagreements, Such As Whether It Was Prettier To Destroy An Army Of A Thousand Men Or To Leave It Be, Or Whether A Particular Dandelion Should Or Should Not Be Plucked. For A Weaver, To Think Was To Think Aesthetically. To Act - To Weave - Was To Bring About More Pleasing Patterns. They Did Not Eat Physical Food: They Seemed To Subsist On The Appreciation Of Beauty.