Oh, Love. Love Is Best

It Was Not Apathy. It Was An Intelligent Disinterest In Those Things That Could Have No Bearing On One's Existence.

It's Very Selfish When I Write. I'm Not Aware, Ever, Of Writing For Another Person; I'm Not Even Really Aware Of Writing For Myself.

There Was No Violence, No Speed. It Moved To The Rhythm Of An Elder Dance, Putting All The Rituals Of The World To Shame. Black, Silver, Gold And Moon-opal, Night And Sea, Fire, Earth, Air And Water.

She Looked, And A Scarlet Butterfly Flew Away From Her, Away Down The Length Of The Tower, And Then Another, Another, An Unraveling Scarf Of Butterflies Like Winged Blood.

I Like Writing About Women, Weak And Strong, Pathetic And Heroic. I Like Writing About Men, Ditto. And All The Variants Of Men And Women, Beasts And Demons.