Perhaps I write for no one. Perhaps for the same person children are writing for when they scrawl their names in the snow.

I became a poet at the age of sixteen. I did not intend to do it. It was not my fault.

The future of narrative? Built in, part of the human template. Not going away. The future of the codex book, with pages and so forth? A platform for transmitting narratives. There are others. The scroll is coming back (Twitter is a scroll.) Short forms are returning online. Interactivity is coming back; it was always there in oral storytelling. Each form has its pluses and its minuses.

In Paradise there are no stories, because there are no journeys.

The story as told in The Odyssey doesn't hold water. There are too many inconsistencies.

And sometimes it happened, for a time. That kind of love comes and goes and is hard to remember afterwards, like pain. You would look at the man one day and you would think, I loved you, and the tense would be past, and you would be filled with a sense of wonder, because it was such an amazing and precarious and dumb thing to have done; and you would know too why your friends have been evasive about it, at the time.

Don't be married to a line or verse if it can't rhyme, fit the meter, or doesn't fit the outline.