Put yourself out of your misery.

Write as if you are dying.

Time is the continuous loop, the snakeskin with scales endlessly overlapping without beginning or end, or time is an ascending spiral if you will, like a child's toy Slinky.

When I first read the words 'introvert' and 'extrovert' when I was 10, I thought I was both.

Private life, book life, took place where words met imagination without passing through the world.

No one escapes the wilderness on the way to the promised land.

I don't know what it is about fecundity that so appalls. I suppose it is the teeming evidence that birth and growth, which we value, are ubiquitous and blind, that life itself is so astonishingly cheap, that nature is as careless as it is bountiful, and that with extravagance goes a crushing waste that will one day include our own cheap lives.