I Don't Think Fake People Living In

I Love This Idea Of The Body As A Trauma Archive!

I Needed To Understand This Random Bad Bit Of Luck As Part Of A Bigger Design. Otherwise I Was Suffering Meaninglessly. This Made The Suffering A Lot Worse.

Like Semmering Academy, The Grove School Was A Gothic Pile Of Bricks Run By 1950s-era Chalk Drones, Which Maintained Its Cultural Viability By Perpetuating A Weirdly Seductive Anxiety Throughout Its Community. Mary Herself Was A Victim Of The Seduction; Despite The Trying And Repetitive Emotional Requirements Of Her Job, She Remained Eternally Fascinated By The Wicker-thin Girls And Their Wicker-thin Mothers, All Of Them Favoring Dark Wool Skirts And Macintoshes And Unreadably Far-away Expressions; If She Squinted, They Could Have Emerged Intact From Any Of The Last Seven Decades.

A Logic Proof Is: You Get A Starting Point And An Ending Point, And You Have To Get There Through All These Different Steps And Tautologies. I Approach Novel Writing That Way. When I Get To The End I Have To Go Back And Connect Everything.

Home Is The Place Where, When You Go There, They Have To Take You In. In Other Words: Home Has Exceedingly Low Standards.