I convinced myself I hadn't seen anything, ... I had done this many times before ... I was adept at erasing reality.

People are afraid to merge.

Disintegration---I'm taking it in stride.

The seals stupidly dive off rocks into swirling black water, barking mindlessly. The zookeepers feed them dead fish. A crowd gathers around the tank, mostly adults, a few accompanied by children. On the seals' tank a plaque warns: COINS CAN KILL——IF SWALLOWED, COINS CAN LODGE IN AN ANIMAL'S STOMACH AND CAUSE ULCERS, INFECTIONS AND DEATH. DO NOT THROW COINS IN THE POOL. So what do I do? Toss a handful of change into the tank when none of the zookeepers are watching. It's not the seals I hate——it's the audience's enjoyment of them that bothers me.

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

I like the idea of a writer being haunted by his own creation, especially if the writer resents the way the character defines him.

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