When One Wants To Write, One Writes.

The Novel Wins By Points, The Short Story By Knockout.

Memory Weaves And Traps Us At The Same Time According To A Scheme In Which We Do Not Participate: We Should Never Speak Of Our Memory, For It Is Anything But Ours; It Works On Its Own Terms, It Assists Us While Deceiving Us Or Perhaps Deceives Up To Assist Us.

Salt And The Center Of The World Have To Be There, In That Spot On The Tablecloth.

Once In A While It Happens That I Vomit Up A Bunny... It's Not Reason For One To Blush And Isolate Oneself And To Walk Around Keeping One's Mouth Shut.

Before Going Back To Sleep I Imagined (i Saw) A Plastic Universe, Changeable, Full Of Wondrous Chance, An Elastic Sky, A Sun That Suddenly Is Missing Or Remains Fixed Or Changes Its Shape.