I used to split my time between writing, music and painting. I would work on a book and then abandon it, start a band, do an album, quit music, then do a gallery show. Eventually I decided to give writing a serious shot.

We're fumbling in the dark, but at least we're in motion.

A month ago there was nothing on Earth I missed, enjoyed, or longed for. I knew I could lose everything and not feel anything, and I rested easy in that knowledge. But I'm growing tired of easy things.

Deep under our feet the Earth holds its molten breath, while the bones of countless generations watch us and wait.

I sigh inside, so exhausted by these ugly questions, but when did a monster ever deserve its privacy?

The sports arena Julie calls home is unaccountably large, perhaps one of those dual-event 'super venues' built for an era when the greatest quandary facing the world was where to put all the parties.

It's rare that I read more than two or three books by any one author, usually only one.