What More Chilling Indictment Of The Modern

My Novels Tend To Come About From A Fusion Of Two Big Ideas, Creating A Critical Mass That Then Fissions, Throwing Off Hundreds Of Other Particles, Riffs, Tropes And Characters.

Lust Was A Positive High-tension Cable, Plugged Into My Core, Activating A Near-epileptic Seizure Of Conviction That This Was The One Thing I Had To Do In Life.

I'm Going To End Up Like One Of Those Old Weirdos Who Lives In A Network Of Tunnels Burrowed Through Trash - Yet I Do Not Fear This.

The Whole Aesthetics Of Computers Very Much Feeds Into My Ocd. They Fill My Head With Obsessionalities And My Actions Become Very Repetitive. It Seems Quite Inimical To The Dreamy State Out Of Which Fiction Comes Which Seems So Much Less Causally Repetitive Than The Way One Works On Computers.

You Don't Need To Know This - But Here Goes: Due To Some Acquired Infantilism, I Feel Compelled To Fall Asleep Listening To The Radio. On A Good Night, I'll Push The Frail Barque Of My Psyche Off Into The Waters Of Lethe Accompanied By The Midnight Newsreader - On A Bad One, It's The Shipping Forecast.