It's easier to give half a damn in some fantasy world.

By thirty-three I thought there would be something grand, that the skies would open and everything was made electric. When thirty-four cracked I realized reality was like clay and it was rather unreal, and that the world is whatever your mind wants it.

Then why write fiction at all.

Because no matter what course you chart on the hot surface you cannot make an animal talk and you sure as hell cannot build castles. And for some reason that matters but I will let you know later because I have not one clue why.