I would hope that people, no matter what age, would find something to identify with in my books, pick one up and experience a personal sense of discovery. That's great. But for them, not for me.

A spider lives inside my head Who weaves a strange and wondrous web Of silken threads and silver strings To catch all sorts of flying things, Like crumbs of thoughts and bits of smiles And specks of dried-up tears, And dust of dreams that catch and cling For years and years and years...

My skin is kind of sort of brownish pinkish yellowish white. My eyes are greyish blueish green, but I'm told they look orange in the night. My hair is reddish blondish brown, but its silver when its wet, and all the colors I am inside have not been invented yet.

Knock! knock! who's there? me! me who? that's right? what's right? meehoo! that's what I want to know! what's what you want to know? me who? yes, exactly! exactly what? yes, I have exactlywatt on a chain! exactly what on a chain? yes! yes what? no, exactlywatt! that's what I want to know! I told you-exactlywatt! exactly what? yes! yes what? yes it's with me. what's with you? exactlywatt-that's what with me. me who? yes! go away! knock knock...

God says to me with a kind of smile, "Hey how would you like to be God awhile And steer the world?" . . . . "How much do I get? What time is lunch?" . . . . "Gimme back that wheel," says God. "I don't think you're quite ready yet."

would you like to hear the night i bravely fought the- no? alright

People are always giving you credit for really wanting to say more than you said.