Closed in a room, my imagination becomes the universe, and the rest of the world is missing out.

After each of his books, the writer, for a while, feels once again that he can now die happy.

I've played Romeo for Juliet(But in depth)It's vignettes of silhouettes(And then read)And watched Russian roulette, yeah red SovietYet doing it simultaneouslyWhile dropping down shed oubliettesTurned around and took truth to the head thatLove is the ugliest thing too beautiful for death

I appreciate a book intended to be judged by its cover. The insincere readers are often weeded out while the sincere readers remain curious.

The best of fiction, as we know, of course, doesn't tell the truth; it tales the truth.