Love. The black hook. The spear singing through the mind.

I spend my time dwelling on revenge and try to deal with the monsters crawling out of the ashes.

I feel myself becoming less a person than a place, inhabited, a foreign land.

I got well by talking. Death could not get a word in edgewise, grew discouraged, and traveled on.

Your life feels different on you, once you greet death and understand your heart's position. You wear your life like a garment from the mission bundle sale ever after - lightly because you realize you never paid nothing for it, cherishing because you know you won't ever come by such a bargain again.

Things which do not grow and change are dead things.

I work really out of mythology, so often I work out of a story that has remained lodged inside somehow, or I work out of history, you know, out of a sense of historical inevitability with characters.