So, Whenever I'm Writing, I'm Writing In

Rust, Corrosion, Wind, Rain. The Nibbling Teeth Of Mice And The Acrid Droppings Of Insects And The Devouring Jaws Of Years. The Was Of Nature Upon Machines, Of The Planet's Chaotic Forces Upon The Works Of Humankind. The Energy That Man Had Pulled From The Earth Was Being Inexorably Pulled Back Into It, Sucked Like Water Down A Drain. Before Long, If It Hadn't Happened Already, Not A Single High-tension Pole Would Be Left Standing On The Earth. Mankind Had Built A World That Would Take A Hundred Years To Die. A Century For The Last Light To Go Out.

The Sadness You Feel Is Not Your Own. It's His Sadness You Feel In Your Heart, Amy, For Missing You.

I'm A Workmanlike Writer. I Show Up Every Day And Treat It Like A Job. The Old Rule That Writing Is Like Any Other Job, The First Rule Is That You Must Show Up. I'm At The Keyboard From 9 To 4 Every Day.

I Like To Break Left When People Think I'm Going To Go Right.

There Was Something In The Pages Of These Books That Had The Power To Make Him Feel Better About Things, A Life Raft To Cling To Before The Dark Currents Of Memory Washed Him Downstream Again, And On Brighter Days, He Could Even See Himself Going On This Way For Some Time. A Small But Passable Life. And Then, Of Course, The End Of The World Happened.