I dream in shades of wisteria but I make love to the wetland dirt under Pacific Northwest rain, letting it wash away reason so that all that remains within me is a passion for living in the present, and the knowledge that the future is endlessly beautiful. I write about my emotions, not always the events behind them, opening the tap, or the floodgates, depending--my vulnerable eyes are a dam.
A story is time itself, boxed and compressed. It is the briefest entertainment and simulacrum of real life, which is big and messy and requires a strange kind of endurance. The story is stylized for that flash of laughter and pain, thwarted desire and odd consummation, while life waterfalls with it--all of it--every day: prodigious, cloying, in decay. And when the story is finally over--even if the protagonist survives a spray of gunfire and goes on living--it's over. Meanwhile, life carries on, river-swift.Michael Paterniti, The Telling Room
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