People say I write cruel stories and I do agree. I write about the people who say things like this to me. I just write about common people. I write about people like you. I write frequently on my new novel but someone who I love a lot believes writing is a way to run from reality. I have to run from reality. Reality is vicious. But the book I am writing scares the hell out of me because I see who I really am. I am vicious, too. I let the characters in my stories suffer. I feel sorry for them sometimes. I cry for them and then I let them suffer even more. Then I stop writing for a while, only to find that any story is better than my daily life. My daily life is more vicious than anything else. I really don’t know where I am today. I am a problem to myself lately. I have a secret lover in one of my stories. Last week I found out my whole life is a story because my secret lover said something like it in this story. I am a character in this story, too. This bugs me. I try to subsist in the synthetic world of Cable Cosmos.