The sea pronounces something, over and over, in a hoarse whisper; I cannot quite make it out.

The novel is a game or joke shared between author and reader.

The world did not have me in mind; it had no mind. It was a coincidental collection of things and people, of items, an I myself was one such item...the things in the world did not necessarily cause my overwhelming feelings; the feelings were inside me, beneath my skin, behind my ribs, withing my skull. They were even, to some extent, under my control.

The way to learn about a writer is to read the text. Or texts.

A schedule defends from chaos and whim. A net for catching days.

It is difficult to undo our own damage, and to recall to our presence that which we have asked to leave.

Whenever there is stillness there is the still small voice, God's speaking from the whirlwind, nature's old song, and dance.