One Night, In His Cups, He Drank

You Could Make A Poultice Out Of Mud To Cool A Fever. You Could Plant Seeds In Mud And Grow A Crop To Feed Your Children. Mud Would Nourish You, Where Fire Would Only Consume You, But Fools And Children And Young Girls Would Choose Fire Every Time.

Kind? How Boring That Would Be. I Aspire To Be Wicked.

I Had A Couple Of Friends, But I Was Mostly The Kid With His Nose In A Book.

The Gods Don’t Care About Men, No More Than Kings Care About Peasants.

The Truth Of It Is, Writers Do Have Peculiar Relationships With Their Characters. They Are Our Children In More Senses Than One. They Are Born Of Our Imaginations, Carry Much Of Ourselves In Them, And Embody Whatever Dreams We Dream Of Immortality.