Through his writing he has travelled and learned what he might dare to dream about the world and himself. He had acknowledged the difference between good and evil, right and wrong, both existing in a different dimension from his own. But he felt that he, too, existed much of the time in a different plane from everyone else he knew. There was waking, and there was sleeping. And then there was writing, a kind of parallel universe in which anything might happen and frequently did, a universe in which he might be a newcomer but was never really a stranger. His real, true world. His perfect island. But if these years have taught him anything it is this: you can never run away. Not ever. The only way out is in.
