But Everyone Disappears, No Matter

And There Is A Chance That Everything We Did Was Incorrect, But Stasis Is Itself Criminal For Those With The Means To Move, And The Means To Weave Communion Between People.

At That Moment I Was Sure. That I Belonged In My Skin. That My Organs Were Mine And My Eyes Were Mine And My Ears, Which Could Only Hear The Silence Of This Night And My Faint Breathing, Were Mine, And I Loved Them And What They Could Do.

Now I'm In Nonfiction. To Me Any Given Story Has Its Appropriate Form. There Might Be Some Story I Get Involved With That's Begging To Be A Graphic Novel, So That Will Have To Be That Way. There's Always That Matching Of The Content And The Form, And That Means Everything To Me. I Spend Years Thinking About What That Match Is Going To Be Before I Can Really Make It Work.

I Like The Dark Part Of The Night, After Midnight And Before Four-thirty, When It's Hollow, When Ceilings Are Harder And Farther Away. Then I Can Breathe, And Can Think While Others Are Sleeping, In A Way Can Stop Time, Can Have It So – This Has Always Been My Dream – So That While Everyone Else Is Frozen, I Can Work Busily About Them, Doing Whatever It Is That Needs To Be Done, Like The Elves Who Make The Shoes While Children Sleep.

Every Time I Get Through The Work On A Book Of Nonfiction, I Say I'll Never Do It Again; It Takes So Much Out Of You.