That's not such a bad thing,' he said to me. 'In nightmares we can think the worst. That's what they're for, I guess.

And she sees that the moonlight is losing its orange glow. It has become buttery, and will soon turn to silver.

Do you need someone to make you a paper badge with the word WRITER on it before you can believe you are one? God I hope not.

One only wishes Wayne LaPierre and his NRA board of directors could be drafted to some of these scenes, where they would be required to put on booties and rubber gloves and help clean up the blood, the brains, and the chunks of intestine still containing the poor wads of half-digested food that were some innocent bystander's last meal.

The quiet, singing voice of the rose. The song that promised all might be well, all might be well, that all manner of things might be well.

I don't want to just mess with your head. I want to mess with your life.... I want you to miss appointments, burn dinner, skip your homework. I want you to tell your wife to take that moonlight stroll on the beach at Waikiki with the resort tennis pro while you read a few more chapters.

The act of writing itself is done in secret, like masturbation.