And they would all smile at the beauty of destruction.

I also fear that nothing really ends at the end. Things just keep going as long as memory can wield its ax, always finding a soft part in your mind to cut through and enter.

Around us I can sniff out a savagery in the noisy southern air. It knifes it's way into my nose, but I do not bleed blood. It's fear I bleed, and it gushes out over my lip. I wipe it away, in a hurry.

Shadows of cloud lurked in the water, like holes the sun forgot about.

Only in today's sick society can a man be persecuted for reading too many books.

I'm not one of these 'the characters write themselves; the story just fell out of me' kind of writers. Wish it was like that.

Everything was good. But it was awful, too.