What is any of this to us? Time is endless and ours. Love and Death are only the games we play in it.
I like writing about women, weak and strong, pathetic and heroic. I like writing about men, ditto. And all the variants of men and women, beasts and demons.
Madness. I did not get myself born to die. I have better things to do.
I will draw you back to me. You shall see. By a chain of stars.
Are not all loves secretly the same? A hundred flowers sprung from a single root.
We need the expressive arts, the ancient scribes, the storytellers, the priests.