One of the things I've really gotten past in the last couple of years is the idea of being made uncomfortable by the way things appear, rather than how things are. Clearly in this business you have to contend with a lot of that.

Nightly you retrace your steps again to return to the scene of the crime. It's uncanny how you hover in the air of the wreckage that you left behind.

You drew a bird that was here, a kind of sweet chanticleer. But with a terrible fear that the cage couldn't tame

I suppose I should be happy to be misread; better be that than some of the other things I have become.

For me, there's a fine line between telling a story that's fictional with lots of details and then removing yourself too much from it, so it's bloodless, a little too fictional.

Save me from the ranks of the freaks who suspect they can never love anyone.

It's in the dictionary. And when I find what it is, I'll write it down in case it comes up again, I'll be certain to avoid it.