We All Flee In Hope Of Finding

Older Teens Tend To Write To Me And Say, 'thank You For Not Writing Down To Teenagers.'

A Lot Of The Drive To Make Narratives Came From Having To Play By Myself As A 5- Or 6-year-old In The Woods.

You Made Her Apologize For Sickness. For Her Courage. You Made Her Feel Sorry For Dying.

...for Reading, Once Begun, Quickly Becomes Home And Circle And Court And Family, And Indeed, Without Narrative, I Felt Exiled From My Own Country. By The Transport Of Books, That Which Is Most Foreign Becomes One's Familiar Walks And Avenues; While That Which Is Most Familiar Is Removed To Delightful Strangeness; And Unmoving, One Travels Infinite Causeways, Immobile And Thus Unfettered.

The Sky Was As Blue As A Stupid Postcard, And The Islands Were As Green As Islands.