I remember that I'm invisible and walk softly so as not awake the sleeping ones. Sometimes it is best not to awaken them; there are few things in the world as dangerous as sleepwalkers.

The clock ticked with empty urgency, as though trying to catch up with the time. In the street a siren howled.

And my problem was that I always tried to go in everyone's way but my own.

I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me.

It took me a long time and much painful boomeranging of my expectations to achieve a realization everyone else appears to have been born with: That I am nobody but myself.

Good fiction is made of that which is real, and reality is difficult to come by.

God is love, I said, but art's the possibility of forms, and shadows are the source of identity.