—– Often I wonder if I write the stories at all. It seems there is something lingering at the back of my mind, like a gate keeper, that ushers in strangers from another place and these strangers start whispering words from inside my ears. (They don’t speak English. Their only language is Thought. I find myself guessing what they are telling me, offering ideas, and every once and a while I get an excited, light-headed feeling that tells me I got it right.) Sometimes, when I need a place to go, I crawl inside my mind and ask the gate keeper to open the gate. There I can think so freely. I may not be entirely in charge, but I get to offer my own ideas. Perhaps that is what God is, if he exists. Just someone or something from another universe making up stories. That is what we are. That is what we are made of. Yes, carbohydrates and protein and the like, but if you go farther down, past every cell and every atom, every proton and neutron, there are stories buried in everything.