God Is Love, I Said, But Art's

There Are Few Things In The World As Dangerous As Sleepwalkers.

I Am An Invisible Man. I Am A Man Of Substance, Of Flesh And Bone, Fiber And Liquids - And I Might Even Be Said To Possess A Mind. I Am Invisible, Understand, Simply Because People Refuse To See Me.

And While The Ice Was Melting To Form A Flood In Which I Threatened To Drown I Awoke One Afternoon To Find That My First Northern Winter Had Set.

By And Large, The Critics And Readers Gave Me An Affirmed Sense Of My Identity As A Writer. You Might Know This Within Yourself, But To Have It Affirmed By Others Is Of Utmost Importance. Writing Is, After All, A Form Of Communication.

I Suddenly Recall The Arpeggios Of Laughter Lilting Across The Tender, Springtime Grass-gay-welling, Far-floating, Fluent, Spontaneous, A Bell-like Feminine Fluting, Then Suppressed; As Though Snuffed Swiftly And Irrevocably Beneath The Quiet Solemnity Of The Vespered Air Now Vibrant With Somber Chapel Bells.