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

And as the elevator descents, passing the second floor, and the first floor, going even father down, I realize that the money doesn't matter. That all that does is that I want to see the worst

I felt lethal, on the verge of frenzy. My nightly bloodlust overflowed into my days and I had to leave the city. My mask of sanity was a victim of impending slippage. This was the bone season for me and I needed a vacation.

Fear never shows up and the party ends early.

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

No one will ever know anyone. We just have to deal with each other. You're not ever gonna know me.

At Columbus Circle, a juggler wearing a trench cloak and top hat, who is usually at this location afternoons and who calls himself Stretch Man, performs in front of a small, uninterested crowd; though I smell prey, and he seems worthy of my wrath, I move on in search of a less dorky target. Though if he'd been a mime, odds are he'd already be dead.