Janey accuses me of chasing jailbait. She bursts into angry tears, asking if it's because she's getting older. It's true. She's aging more noticeably every day — while I am standing still. I prefer the stillness here. I am tired of Earth. These people. I am tired of being caught in the tangle of their lives.

Truly, whoever we are, wherever we reside, we exist upon the whim of murderers.

I'm dependent on writing for a living, so really it's to my advantage to understand how the creative process works. One of the problems is, when you start to do that, in effect you're going to have to step off the edge of science and rationality.

The only real reason that I'd have for working for Hollywood is the fantastic amounts of money involved, and that isn't enough of an incentive to really give up the degree of control that I have over my work at the moment with comics. I suppose that's probably why I don't have any designs on being a screenwriter.

I think that the Occupy movement is, in one sense, the public saying that they should be the ones to decide who's too big to fail.

Does the human heart know chasms so abysmal?

Who? Who is but the form following the function of what, and what I am is a man in a mask.