Can’t sleep. Snow is soundless and I cannot see through blackness of the night. Snowplows grinding by tell me it’s snowing.
Images in the dark now frighten not inspire. Just like the plows, the noise of either dead or yet unborn conversation flashes by to let me know it’s there, all the worse for the not knowing where it began or ends.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
What do you want to write about Susan? I think you’ve taken enough notes.
Mark, I just can’t write much lately. I’m not happy with stories, and I can’t write reality. I don’t think anything much will be done in this lifetime as far as finished product.