At some point, even the greatest misery begins to fade. Life, or what passes for life, plods on in it's own unending weary footsteps, and somehow we plod along with it, if we stay lucky.

In the unlikely story that is America, there has never been anything false about hope.

They walked through the rainy dark like gaunt ghosts, and Garraty didn't like to look at them. They were the walking dead.

You ate my dog, you undead freak!__ey! Watch the slander. I hear the acceptable term is __orporeallychallenged_ now. No need to be rude.

I write about the scariest monsters: The ones inside us all. And the ones that want to eat what is inside us all.

Art is inextricably tied to man's survival - not to his physical survival, but to that on which his physical survival depends: to the preservation and survival of his consciousness.