You can kill a man with those words. No gun. No bullets. Just words and a girl.

Why me?' I ask God. God says nothing. I laugh and the stars watch. It's good to be alive.

I watch the beauty for as long as I can, then turn and face the rest of it.

The last time I saw her was red. The sky was like soup, boiling and stirring. In some places, it was burned. There were black crumbs, and pepper, streaked across the redness.

Very quickly, very suddenly, words fell through my mind. They landed on the floor of my thoughts, and in there, down there, I started to pick the words up. They were excerpts of truth gathered from inside me.

I procrastinate in spades. In my defence, I also try to have all other distractions solved before I can concentrate on writing. My small theory is that to write for three hours, you need to feel like you have three days. To write for three days, you need to feel like you've got three weeks, and so on.

He watched them grow, until eventually, great forests of words had risen throughout Germany.... It was a nation of farmed thoughts.