Writing is seduction.

I never met a writer who wasn't lazy.

Panic is highly contagious, especially in situations when nothing is known and everything is in flux.

But in high school the business of irrevocable choices began. Doors slipped shut with a faint locking click that was only heared clearly in the dreams of later years.

You see something, then it clicks with something else, and it will make a story. But you never know when it's going to happen.

For a moment everything was clear, and when that happens you see that the world is barely there at all. Don't we all secretly know this? It's a perfectly balanced mechanism of shouts and echoes pretending to be wheels and cogs, a dreamclock chiming beneath a mystery-glass we call life. Behind it? Below it and around it? Chaos, storms. Men with hammers, men with knives, men with guns. Women who twist what they cannot dominate and belittle what they cannot understand. A universe of horror and loss surrounding a single lighted stage where mortals dance in defiance of the dark.

It's hard enough for a person to keep their own socks pulled up, let alone someone else's.