Life Isn't Always A Butcher's Game. Sometimes

And If There Are No Cars Or Planes, And If No One’s Uncle John Is Out In The Wood Lot West Of Town Banging Away At A Quail Or Pheasant; If The Only Sound Is The Slow Beat Of Your Own Heart, You Can Hear Another Sound, And That Is The Sound Of Life Winding Down To Its Cyclic Close, Waiting For The First Winter Snow To Perform Last Rites.

True Sorrow Is As Rare As True Love.

I Started To Submit When I Was Twelve, And Obviously At That Time They Weren't Good Enough, And I Suppose In My Heart Of Hearts I Knew It. But You Have To Start Sooner Or Later, You Have To Dig In.

And In Real Life Endings Aren't Always Neat, Whether They're Happy Endings, Or Whether They're Sad Endings.

I Think Telling Stories Is Like Pushing Something. Pushing Against Uncreation Itself, Maybe.