Writing for me is a somewhat Lovecraftian process, except I am the unknowable creature that comes from beneath the sea and between the stars. I have a thousand limbs, most of them are tentacles, amorphous and flowing, twined to the strings of reality, playing with them as I will.
And, should you find yourself in one of my stories, look closely, check the cracks. For, like all my kind, I am messy about the edges, and, if you look, if you listen, it is not so hard to find a tendril that has strayed where it should not be.
Put your ear to it.
Listen.
Listen closely.
The Trickster sings.
For you are neither puppets nor looms; your world is a harp, and it was meant to be played.
And if your sunlight is forever free of tears, then you will never see a rainbow.
