The road to death is a lonely highway, and longer than it apears, even when it leads straight down from the scaffold, by way of a rope; and it's a dark road, with never any moon shining on it, to light your way.

Short forms are returning online. Interactivity is coming back; it was always there in oral storytelling.

The objects I chose were designed to hold something, but I didn't fill them up. They remained empty. They were little symbolic shrines to thirst.

The truth, it seems, is not just what you find when you open a door: it is itself a door, which the poet is always on the verge of going through.

I am not my childhood,' Snowman says out loud.

He was deciding whether to cut her throat or love her forever.

I tried to visualize my jealousy as a yellowy-brown cloud boiling around inside me, then going out through my nose like smoke and turning into a stone and falling down into the ground. That did work a little. But in my visualization a plant covered with poison berries would grow out of the stone, whether I wanted it to or not.