I always try to be alert to the potential for repetition, for a decaying orbit with regard to my use of technique, etc.

Once you realize there's less logic in human institutions than you once thought, you see the narrative potential in just about everything around you. Sometimes, in fact, it seems as if the human world runs on inefficiency and erratic behavior.

The music I listen to while writing is really scene-specific. It's just a great motivator, a way to put myself in the mood.

So many differing opinions and philosophies... are rarely housed under the roof of a single magazine.

But what if you discover that the price of purpose is to render invisible so many other things?

Who had the bigger burden? The one who had to watch the other person endure or the one who endured?

The city might be savage, stray dogs might share the streets with grimy urchins whose blank eyes reflected the knowledge that they might soon be covered over, blinded forever, by the same two pennies just begged from some gentleman, and no one in the fuming, fulminous boulevards of trade might know who actually ran Ambergris-or, if anyone ran it at all, but, like a renegade clock, it ran on and wound itself heedless, empowered by the insane weight of its own inertia, the weight of its own citizenry.