The short story packs a self in a few pages predicating a lifetime
The past exudes legend: one can't make pure clay of time's mud.
I work with language. I love the flowers of afterthought.
I write a book at least three times-once to understand it, the second time to improve the prose, and a third to compel it to say what it still must say.
For misery don't blame God. He gives the food but we cook it.
There is in the darkness a unity, if you will, that cannot be achieved in any other environment, a blending of self with what the self perceives, and exquisite mystical experience.