My pain is constant and sharp, and I do not hope for a better world for anyone.

Look how black the sky is, the writer said. I made it that way.

People just... disappear," he says. "The Earth just opens up and swallows people," I say, some what sadly, checking my Rolex. "Eerie." Kimball yawns, stretching. "Really eerie." "Ominous." I nod my agreement. "It's just"- he sights, exasperated- "futile.

what's right? If you want something, you have the right to take it. If you want to do something, you have the right to do it.

I've forgotten who I had lunch with earlier, and even more important, where.

But... what about us? What about the past?" she asks blankly. "The past isn't real. it's just a dream," I say. "Don't mention the past.

I do tend to look at my books in many ways as conceptual fiction, even to the point where I think the author's photograph is part of the package. And I have gone out of my way to select the photograph to connect to the subject matter of each book.