Everything is barely weeks. Everything is days. We have minutes to live.

The family is the cradle of the world's misinformation.

A dead afternoon in a dark bar was not the worst of fates.

When I work, I'm just translating the world around me in what seems to be straightforward terms. For my readers, this is sometimes a vision that's not familiar. But I'm not trying to manipulate reality. This is just what I see and hear.

Clouds are no deterrent. Clouds intensify the drama, trap and shape the light.

Writing is a form of personal freedom. It frees us from the mass identity we see in the making all around us. In the end, writers will write not to be outlaw heroes of some underculture but mainly to save themselves, to survive as individuals.

Ask yourself this question. Do we have to be humans forever? Consciousness is exhausted. Back now to inorganic matter. This is what we want. We want to be stones in a field.