The Big Problem Is Time.

My Art School Rejection Letter Arrived As A Cold Manila Fist That Closed Around My Fragile Hopes ... The Fear Was Practically Edible. Nothing Would Happen Unless I Get Out And Make It Happen. Then, As If Handling Me The Keys To The Jet Pack, My Dad Bought Me A Typewriter And A Taped Message To The Inside Of Its Case: "son - The World Is Waiting To Hear From You".

It's Always Interesting To See What The Real Enthusiasts Think, But They're Rarely Representative Of The Tastes Of The Wider Audience, So I Tend To Write For Myself, For An Imagined Smart 14-year-old, And For A Couple Of Friends Who Are Still Big Comics Fans.

In The World Of The Superheroes, Everything Had Value, Potential, Mystery. Any Person, Thing, Or Object Could Be Drafted Into Service In The Struggle Against Darkness And Evil - Remade As A Weapon Or A Warrior Or A Superhero. Even A Little Bee Named Michael - After God's Own Avenging Angel - Could Pitch In To Win The Battle Against Wickedness.

And When It's All Done, When There's No One Left You'll Come Back For Me. And Tell Me Who I Am And Why I Have To Do What I Do. And Explain 'eternity.' You'll Come Back

This Is The End Of Our Sentence