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.

Light confirms my reality, gives birth to my form...without light I am not only invisible but formless as well; and to be unaware of one's form is to live a death...the truth is the light and light is the truth.

I blundered into writing.

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.

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

If the word has the potency to revive and make us free, it has also the power to bind, imprison and destroy.

Having tried to give pattern to the chaos which lives within the pattern of your certainties, I must come out, I must emerge.