No whining, children. Our lives are what we have made of them. Mess, gore,
love and beauty. Tomorrow death rides aloft. And I'm tired of spending more
time making this for you than you spend reading it. And there is already so
much narrative of my life it'll keep you busy for a while. Hell, some of it's
worth memorizing. Drivel of a dying prophet. I shall always continue writing
but there will be less of a blog. Horror and pain are here and I can barely
stand it. How can I expect you to? Lobby me if you like, encouragement is
encouraging and I'd love to hear that you are interested. But I'd rather work
on fiction and music in the face of a reality that makes me, quite frankly,
sick.
03182003