I'm not very good at being alive. Sometimes I despair of ever mastering it, getting it right. When I'm old, perhaps.

A rose by any other name Would get the blame For being what it is-- The colour of a kiss, The shadow of a flame. A rose may earn another name, So call it love; So call it love I will, And love is like the sea, Which changes constantly, And yet is still The same.

I also love Disney, and will defend doing so, because there's so much in those films and I don't care if it's stereotyped.

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

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

Condemned and executioner with aren't coupled in a primitive rite.

It's very selfish when I write. I'm not aware, ever, of writing for another person; I'm not even really aware of writing for myself.