Sometimes I Write What I

He Turns And Walks Away, Moving So Quickly That The Candle Flames Shiver With The Motion Of The Air. “i Miss You,” Isobel Says As He Leaves, But The Sentiment Is Crushed By The Clatter Of The Beaded Curtain Falling Closed Behind Him.

I Don't Always Write In Order, So Composing Multi-book Stories Could Get Complicated.

Sometimes I Write What I Can't Paint, And I Paint What I Can't Write. I Use A Different Part Of The Brain.

Trespassers Will Be Exsanguinated.

Each Of Them Always Gravitating Toward The Other. Yet Still They Do Not Touch.