The Ruins Proclaim The Building Was Beautiful.

Time Only Moves In One Direction. Remember That. Things Always Change.

Maybe We Are All Prospective Migrants. The Lines Of National Borders On Maps Are Artificial Constructs, As Unnatural To Us As They Are To Birds Flying Overhead. Our First Impulse Is To Ignore Them.

If Your Book Is Set In The Plantation Days Of The Slave-owning South And You Write A Little Romance Between Two Slave Owners Without Acknowledging The System They Live, That's A Political Gesture.

For If There Were A List Of Cosmic Things That Unite Us, Reader And Writer, Visible As It Scrolled Up Into The Distance, Like The Introduction To Some Epic Science-fiction Film, Then Shining Brightly On That List Would Be The Fact That We Exist In A Financial Universe That Is Subject To Massive Gravitational Pulls From States. States Tug At Us. States Bend Us. And, Tirelessly, States Seek To Determine Our Orbits.

Pakistan Now Is Like A Horror Film Franchise. You Know, It's 'friday The 13th, Episode 63: The Terrorist From Pakistan.' And Each Time We Hear Of Pakistan It's In That Context.