So many humans. So many colours. They keep triggering inside me. They harass my memory. I see them tall in their heaps, all mounted on top of each other. There is air like plastic, a horizon like setting glue. There are skies manufactured by people, punctured and leaking, and there are soft, coal-coloured clouds, beating, like black hearts. And then. There is death. Making his way through all of it. On the surface: unflappable, unwavering. Below: unnerved, untied, and undone.

THE LAST WORDS OF MAX VANDENBURG: You've done enough.

My arms are killing me. I didn't know words could be so heavy.

He prefers not to ruin things with any more questions. What it is is what it is.

How do you tell if something's alive? You check for breathing.

I have hated words and I have loved them, and I hope I have made them right.

I certainly wasn't born with creative writing. Maybe there's a certain amount of learning and then it's up to the person. I think in the end it's your favourite books that are the best teachers. That's the way I've learned the most, by far.