“This work is the link between my Dear Natalie piece and my upcoming Agatha work. It bridges that lapse in time and shows how my thinking has changed. It shows me telling a story through the surreal and trying to use thought fragments alone to show a tortured existence. This piece was written after the Dear Natalies and before the Agatha mystery, but it is meant to be read after you’ve already read both.This book is a bridge between two books, which would make it a bridge between two bridges. That’s strange, but I’ve seen stranger. Like the time I woke up in a fish tank, having morphed into a goldfish during my sleep. I still fear the sound of a flushing toilet, and since then I refuse to let myself fall asleep while wearing flippers.This book is 3,088 words of pure nonsense, strung together like pearls hurled at bacon. Yum!”

“I suddenly felt entirely weak, unable, and inadequate to bridge the gap between myself and these men. Then I realized I didn't have to bridge that chasm. That wasn't my responsibility. My responsibility was simply to be there, and to trust that the Lord would use me, that He would bridge the distance.”

“In an infinite universe, all things are possible -- within physical limits, that is -- and any book that can be written does physically exist. Somewhere. The book is the bridge between the words and the physical actuality.”

“Between the covers a book can be a sin. I have spent many hours in search of a waking dream. And once having learned to read, I couldn’t imagine my life otherwise. The indifferent children around me didn’t share my enthusiasm for the written word. Some might sit for a good story while told, but if a book had no pictures they showed scant interest.”

“Perhaps my grandfather was right, perhaps I was spoiled in the bud by the books I read. But it is ages since books have claimed me. For a long time now I have practically ceased to read. But the taint is still there. Now people are books to me. I read them from cover to cover and toss them aside. I devour them, one after the other. And the more I read, the more insatiable I become. There is no limit to it. There could be no end, and there was none, until inside me a bridge began to form which united me again with the current of life from which as a child I had been separated.”

“I know that books seem like the ultimate thing that’s made by one person, but that’s not true… Every reading of a book is a collaboration between the reader and the writer who are making the story up together.”