It was the time of year, the time of day, for a small insistent sadness to pass into the texture of things. Dusk, silence, iron chill. Something lonely in the bone.

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.

Coming and going I am leaving. I will go and come. Leaving has come to me. We all, shall all, will all be left. Because I am here and where. And I will go or not or never. And I have seen what I will see. If I am where I will be. Because nothing comes between me.

A writer decides to follow some ideas and not others for reasons that aren't always clear to him. It's often a matter of intuition.

War is the form nostalgia takes when men are hard-pressed to say something good about their country.

days like this. i look at you and feel electric. tell me you don't feel it too."_Eric Packer

The world is full of abandoned meanings. In the commonplace I find unexpected themes and intensities.