One of the reasons I write horror is to conduct a dialogue with myself about life and death, the suffering that living entails but also the wonder and mystery that life offers. Horror, to my eye, is granted a special licence in these matters. Imaginatively exploring the true precariousness of life and society, and the miracle of consciousness and existence, can also be a path to terrifying visions. But if you are gifted with an imagination it must be used. And if I ever needed evidence of how my imagination works, abstractly, in response to my own time in the world, I need look no further than
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