A Short Story Relies On

Only In Dreams, In Poetry, In Play Do We Sometimes Arrive At What We Were Before We Were This Thing That, Who Knows, We Are.

Once In A While It Happens That I Vomit Up A Bunny... It's Not Reason For One To Blush And Isolate Oneself And To Walk Around Keeping One's Mouth Shut.

What Good Is A Writer If He Can't Destroy Literature? And Us... What Good Are We If We Don't Help As Much As We Can In That Destruction?

After The Age Of 50 We Begin To Die Little By Little In The Deaths Of Others.

As If You Could Pick In Love, As If It Were Not A Lightning Bolt That Splits Your Bones And Leaves You Staked Out In The Middle Of The Courtyard. (...) You Don't Pick Out The Rain That Soaks You To The Skin When You Come Out Of A Concert.