Trespassers Will Be Exsanguinated.

I Find I Think Of Myself Not As A Writer So Much As Someone Who Provides A Gateway, A Tangential Route For Readers To Reach The Circus. To Visit The Circus Again, If Only In Their Minds, When They Are Unable To Attend It Physically. I Relay It Through Printed Words On Crumpled Newsprint, Words That They Can Read Again And Again, Returning To The Circus Whenever They Wish, Regardless Of Time Of Day Or Physical Location. Transporting Them At Will. When Put That Way, It Sounds Rather Like Magic, Doesn't It? P.369

A Woman I Should Like To Think I Know Rather Well And A Woman I Had Always Considered A Mystery, Are In Fact The Same Person.

It Is Perhaps Both A Blessing And A Curse That Fictional Worlds Spring Into My Mind Nearly Fully Formed And It Takes Quite A While To Sift Through Everything To Find The Story.

It Is Destroying Me That I Cannot Ask You To Dance.

I Worry Hope Will Crush Me, The Way Love Has So Many Times Before. Are They So Different, Hope And Love? O & E In The Same Place, Half Of The Other In Each Word. Both Swimming In Unknowns. I’ve Been Through The Big Changes. These Ones Should Seem Easier In Comparison, I Should Be More Prepared, But They Don’t And I’m Not. Sometimes I Feel Like A Broken-wing Butterfly, Clinging To A Window Screen. Afraid To Let Go. Afraid To Stay. Wondering How Much Wing Is Enough To Fly.