Fiction Helps Me To Reconnect

A Single Note, Held In An Amber Suspension Of Time, Like A Charcoal Drawing Of Icarus Falling. It Was Sad And Fierce All At Once, Alive With A Lonely Purity. It Went On And On, Until My Own Lungs Were Burning. “what Bird Are You Calling?” I Asked Finally, When I Couldn’t Stand It Any Longer. The Bird Man Stopped Whistling. He Grinned, So That I Could See All His Pebbly Teeth. “you.

Given The Brevity Of Our Time Here, It Does Seem Likely That Our Species, Too, Must Have At Best A Blinkered Understanding Of The Shape Of Things, The Import Of Certain Events And What Distinguishes "good" From "bad" Luck.

It Took Me The Bulk Of My Twenties To Write One Book About A Family Of Alligator Wrestlers. Whereas Somebody Like Steve Martin Is Releasing His Latest Banjo Symphony, Having Just Completed Another Movie And Acclaimed, Best-selling Novel.

I Didn’t Realize That One Tragedy Can Beget Another, And Another — Bright-eyed Disasters Flooding Out Of A Death Hole Like Bats Out Of A Cave.

My Backyard Was Replete With Madness, It Just Grew Indigenously In South Florida.