It Was Nice To Hear

All Things That Are, Are Ours. But We Must Care. For If We Do Not Care, We Do Not Exist. If We Do Not Exist, Then There Is Nothing But Blind Oblivion. And Even Oblivion Must End Someday. Lord, Will You Grant Me Just A Little Time? For The Proper Balance Of Things. To Return What Was Given. For The Sake Of Prisoners And The Flight Of Birds. Death Took A Step Backwards. It Was Impossible To Read Expression In Azrael's Features. Death Glanced Sideways At The Servants. Lord, What Can The Harvest Hope For, If Not For The Care Of The Reaper Man?

Generally I Start Writing When I Have Even The Smallest Idea Of How A Book Is Going To Go, Because The Physical Process Of Writing Itself Keeps The Mind Active And Focused On The Job At Hand. Usually I Write In About 5 Drafts, But That Simply Means There Are 5 Definite Times When I Go In A Linear Fashion From The Beginning To The End Of The Book.

No Matter What She Did With Her Hair It Took About Three Minutes For It To Tangle Itself Up Again, Like A Garden Hosepipe In A Shed [which, No Matter How Carefully Coiled, Will Always Uncoil Overnight And Tie The Lawnmower To The Bicycles].

When All Else Failed, She Tried Being Reasonable.

Welcome To Fear, Said Moist To Himself. It's Hope, Turned Inside Out. You Know It Can't Go Wrong, You're Sure It Can't Go Wrong... But It Might.