Your Weirdness Arouses Me.

I have never shot a man in Reno just to watch him die, though I did once watch my mum trip over the curb with arms full of shopping and nearly wet myself laughing.

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The Boy In The Bottle.

Where normally there would be the sound of birds and the tide crashing against the beach there was silence, all hushed by the coming of a purer form of nature and the boy felt a tinge of excitement...

Between Two Worlds.

Part of me wants to write articles about comics for the rest of my days. The other half wants to chuck everything in and move to the middle east and become a war correspondent.

Another Window To Crawl Through.

This love, this need to create; this compulsion to keep trying to keep improving and seeing what lies on the other side and the other side of that and the other side of that... it's not something to take for granted.

There Are No Artists.

Maybe the constant struggle to silence those voices is more desirable, more attainable than trying to fill the hole that otherwise would exist. Or perhaps I think too much.

My Son.

He was whipped away from our flailing hands and taken to a table in the corner of the room, where three nurses, like the witches of Macbeth huddled over him performing arcane rituals of a modern malady.

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