All Those Moments, Those Memories.

That Wind. I See It's Blowing Now. Furtive But Commanding, It Has Dictated Every Move We've Ever Made. My Mother Felt It, And So Do I - Even Here, Even Now - As It Sweeps Us Like Leaves Into His Backseat Corner, Dancing Us To Shreds Against The Stones. V'la L'bon Vent, V'a L'joli Vent. I Though We'd Silenced It For Good. But The Smallest Thing Can Wake The Wind@ A Word, A Sign, Even A Death. There's No Such Thing As A Trivial Thing. Everything Costs; It All Adds Up Until Finally The Balance Shifts And We're Gone Again, Back On The Road, Telling Ourselves - Well Maybe Next Time

I Love It When My Books Cause Controversy, When People Argue Violently About The Ending.

To Be Closed From Everything, And Yet To Feel, To Think...this Is The Truth Of Hell, Stripped Of Its Gaudy Medievalisms. This Loss Of Contact.

Some Things Can Be Both Real And Imaginary At The Same Time, . . . Some Lies Can Be True, . . . Broken Faith May Be Restored.

If You Can Still Write In Spite Of The Fact That You're Not Getting Paid, That Nobody Cares About What You're Writing, That Nobody Wants To Publish It, That Everybody Is Telling You To Do Something Else, And You Still Want To And You Still Enjoy It And You Can't Stop Doing It...then You're A Writer.