Horror and the grotesque tell most about how it feels like to be me. In a dark land whipped by lightning and lashed by rain every day, I seek shelter in the succor of my imagination, trying to warm myself with the last little flame of hope that's left in me. When they don't bring me down to rip me apart, I try to escape the thousand little demons inside my head by living in my own world. I take up the pen and take down my fantasies, writing on them until I seem to become part of them. By in this way living on inside my characters I try to forget who I am. When it does not call me back to cast me back into the pit of my despair, I am skulking in my novels to escape my sorrow, the devil which is torturing me every day. But when my solitude becomes to much for me to bear, its howls reverberate around my head, and it haunts me even in my imagination. Then even in my own universe I'm not safe, for it pursues me all the way to there; and the flood finally breaks through the barricade I desperately try to build up. Yet if there is one thing that can bring me salvation, it can only be in the innermost recesses of my fantasy. I try to dig deeper and deeper into myself, trying so hard not to remember that beyond my own universe there is a universe outside me; a cold, cruel place which will stop at nothing to drive me to my death.