A Woven Darkly?

I think I've fallen in love with my main character, once again. It keeps surprising me how he can be so goddamn dark, and yet express himself in such poetic ways; I think to myself I must have been drunk or stoned when I caught particular phrases out of thin air, guiding them to paper. Woven, that's his name, weaved by drops of dew in a vast ocean, weaved together by various fears and wonders, dark, dark, dark. A Woven Darkly should maybe the correct subtitle to either one of the novels?
Anyway. He simply says some things that seem to amaze me, and I wrote the damn thing. Once again I think to myself that writers don't actually write the books, only channel stories to paper. That is how I am still surprised by what happens, how I am still moved by what they feel, by how they're thinking.
There's so goddamn much of me in these pages. Half my heart and soul gone to them. Rest in peace, piece! I feel like a real novelist, and for once perhaps one that will never die.
Long live melancholy and darkness. Long live noir!
FJAERIL in the NOVELIST JAR