If they had said my writing wasn't good enough, fair enough, that's an opinion. But to say it's too complex is to insult the intelligence of the so-called young.

I was reading some complex books in my own youth-and no, I didnt always understand every word, let alone every concept-but I got the main thrust, which was like a lifeline in a fluctuating world.

It gets cold in the desert at night, particularly up in the mountains; the stars hammer on the rock and strike frost.

What is any of this to us? Time is endless and ours. Love and Death are only the games we play in it.

How massively the mountains stand, while low to the ground the sand blows. The sand blows on and on. And then there are no mountains, none at all, the sand has kissed and whispered them away. And still, the sand blows on.

It was not apathy. It was an intelligent disinterest in those things that could have no bearing on one's existence.

Writing is writing, and stories are stories. Perhaps the only true genres are fiction and nonfiction. And even there, who can be sure?