There Were A Lot Of Gods. Gods

More And More I Feel Like A Letter—deposited Here, Collected There. But A Letter Addressed To No One.

You Most Likely Need A Thesaurus, A Rudimentary Grammar Book, And A Grip On Reality. This Latter Means: There's No Free Lunch. Writing Is Work. It's Also Gambling. You Don't Get A Pension Plan. Other People Can Help You A Bit, But ­essentially You're On Your Own. Nobody Is Making You Do This: You Chose It, So Don't Whine.

I Have A Fork And A Spoon, But Never A Knife… As If I’m Lacking Manual Skills Or Teeth. I Have Both, However. That’s Why I’m Not Allowed A Knife.

The Best Way Of Keeping A Secret Is To Pretend There Isn't One.

In The End, We'll All Become Stories.