Time Is A Face On

I Was Being Paid To Do What I Loved, And There's No Gig On Earth Better Than That; It's Like A License To Steal.

I’m So Afraid That All I Can Reach Will Lead Me To All I Dare Not See.

Most Gothics Are Overplotted Novels Whose Success Or Failure Hinges On The Author's Ability To Make You Believe In The Characters And Partake Of The Mood.

Let’s Talk, You And I. Let’s Talk About Fear. The House Is Empty As I Write This; A Cold February Rain Is Falling Outside. It’s Night. Sometimes When The Wind Blows The Way It’s Blowing Now, We Lose The Power. But For Now It’s On, And So Let’s Talk Very Honestly About Fear. Let’s Talk Very Rationally About Moving To The Rim Of Madnessand... And Perhaps Over The Edge.

I Realized The Shells Were Talking In A Voice I Recognized. I Should Have; It Was My Own. Had I Always Known That? I Suppose I Had. On Some Level, Unless We're Mad, I Think Most Of Us Know The Various Voices Of Our Own Imaginations. And Of Our Memories, Of Course. They Have Voices, Too. Ask Anyone Who Has Ever Lost A Limb Or A Child Or A Long-cherished Dream. Ask Anyone Who Blames Himself For A Bad Decision, Usually Made In A Raw Instant (an Instant That Is Most Commonly Red). Our Memories Have Voices, Too. Often Sad Ones That Clamor Like Raised Arms In The Dark.