God wiped snot out of his nose and that was you.

What happens to the wide-eyed observer when the window between reality and unreality breaks and the glass begins to fly?

All is forgotten in the stone halls of the dead. These are the rooms of ruin where the spiders spin and the great circuits fall quiet, one by one.

A short story is a different thing all together - a short story is like a kiss in the dark from a stranger.

It wasn't just love that held people together. There was secrets, and the price you paid to keep them.

Everybody wants to psychoanalyze horror. They don't want to psychoanalyze a book like Gay Talese's "Sex with Your Neighbor" [sic] or something like that. It's pretty much accepted that Americans should be interested in who they're diddling and how they're doing it.

A person who doesn't learn from the past is an idiot, in my estimation.