There Are Rocks Deep Enough In This

What Was A Life Anyway? An Accumulation Of Small Shelves Of Incident.

How Inevitable It Is; We Step Into An Ordinary Moment And Never Come Out Again.

I Think A Good Novel Can Be A Doorstop To Despair. I Also Think The Real Bravery Comes With Those Who Prepared To Go Through That Door And Look At The World In All Its Grime And Torment, And Still Find Something Of Value, No Matter How Small.

And I Suddenly Think, As I Look Across The Table At Him, That These Are The Days As They Will Be. This Is The Future As We See It. The Swerve And The Static. The Confidence And The Doubt.

It Had Never Occurred To Me Before But Everything In New York Is Built Upon Another Thing, Nothing Is Entirely By Itself, Each Thing As Strange As The Last, And Connected.