Trees there were, old as trees can be, huge and grasping with hearts black as sin. Strange trees that some said walked in the night.

People think dreams aren't real just because they aren't made of matter, of particles. Dreams are real. But they are made of viewpoints, of images, of memories and puns and lost hopes.

I don't know much more than I did when I was alive. Most of the stuff I know now that I didn't know then I can't put into words.

I'd love to write some porn, but I don't know if I have the right engines. When I was a young man and I was tempted to write porn, imaginary parents would appear over my shoulder and read what I was writing; just about the point that I managed to banish the imaginary parents, real children would lean over my shoulder and read what I was writing.

Grown-ups don't look like grown-ups on the inside either. Outside, they're big and thoughtless and they always know what they're doing. Inside, they look just like they always have. Like they did when they were your age. Truth is, there aren't any grown-ups. Not one, in the whole wide world.

And life is a good thing for a writer. It's where we get our raw material, for a start. We quite like to stop and watch it.

People populate the darkness; with ghosts, with gods, with electrons, with tales.