It was Jim who, years ago, said that reading a story was much like being blind: where the world you could touch or hear, smell or taste ended, you saw nothing that was not mediated to you imaginatively. I think it may even be like being deaf, as well. It was he who told me I should write, and it is because of him, and Max, that I still do.... Read More →
The soul-wrenching dismay of my first kill was nothing to that which now swept through me. Then, though life and choices were at an end for my victim, life for me would go on. The consequences had not been beyond some level of repair for me. That personal Rubicon and the sins that followed had not heralded the end of my ability to act – to change – to do... Read More →
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