My Hero In Comic Books

The Way I Write Is This: I Write About A Thousand Words A Day, A Little Bit More. The Next Morning, I Read Those Thousand Words And Cursorily Edit That. Then I Write The Next Thousand. I Do That All The Way To The End Of The Book And Then I Reread The Book Quite A Few Times, Editing As Go Through.

We Born Dyin'...but You Ask A Man An' He Talk Like He Gonna Live Forevah.

Love, As The Poet Says, Is Like The Spring. It Grows On You And Seduces You Slowly And Gently, But It Holds Tight Like The Roots Of A Tree. You Don't Know Until You're Ready To Go That You Can't Move, That You Would Have To Mutilate Yourself In Order To Be Free. That's The Feeling. It Doesn't Last, At Least It Doesn't Have To. But It Holds On Like A Steel Claw In Your Chest. Even If The Tree Dies, The Roots Cling To You. I've Seen Men And Women Give Up Everything For Love That Once Was.

I Write Every Day And I Just Love Doing It. It's Just... It's Just A Wonderful Thing. Some Of My Stories Work, Some Of Them Don't Work. Some Of Them Are Wild And I Love Them, But They Certainly Don't Fit Into Any Kind Of A Normal System That I Know About.

That’s How Ptolemy Imagined The Disposition Of His Memories, His Thoughts: They Were Still His, Still In The Range Of His Thinking, But They Were, Many And Most Of Them, Locked On The Other Side A Closed Door That He’s Lost The Key For. So His Memory Became Like Secrets Held Away From His Own Mind. But These Secrets Were Noisy Things; They Babbled And Muttered Behind The Door, And So If He Listened Closely He Might Catch A Snatch Of Something He Once Knew Well.