life's endless war against the self you cannot live without.

It's in the democratic citizen's nature to be like a leaf that doesn't believe in the tree it's part of.

This might be one way to start talking about differences between the early postmodern writers of the fifties and sixties and their contemporary descendants.

I wish you way more than luck.

How odd I can have all this inside me and to you it’s just words.

So yo then man what's your story?

Most of the writers I know are weird hybrids. There's a strong streak of egomania coupled with extreme shyness. Writing's kind of like exhibitionism in private. And there's also a strange loneliness, and a desire to have some kind of conversation with people, but not a real great ability to do it in person.