For Me, The Magic Of

I Don't Think I've Ever Had A Mentor. The Closest Thing Is My Friend Christopher Fowler, Another Writer. Chris Kept Me Sane For A Long Time Before I Made It.

The Battle Of Good And Evil Reduced To A Fat Woman Standing In Front Of A Chocolate Shop, Saying, Will I? Won’t I? In Pitiful Indecision.

Sheep Are Not The Docile, Pleasant Creatures Of The Pastoral Idyll. Any Countryman Will Tell You That. They Are Sly, Occasionally Vicious, Pathologically Stupid. The Lenient Shepherd May Find His Flock Unruly, Definant. I Cannot Afford To Be Lenient.

She Always Had That About Her, That Look Of Otherness, Of Eyes That See Things Much Too Far, And Of Thoughts That Wander Off The Edge Of The World.

And So Nat Stood Up And Joined The Group, And Followed, And Watched, And Awaited His Chance As The Light Of Chaos Lit The Plain And Gods And Demons Marched To War.