Are Not All Loves Secretly The Same?

I Tend Not To Analyse My Work, Though I'm Frequently Intrigued When Other People Take Time To Do So.

I Held Out My Book. It Was Precious To Me, As Were All The Things I'd Written; Even Where I Despised Their Inadequacy There Was Not One I Would Disown. Each Tore Its Way From My Entrails. Each Had Shortened My Life, Killed Me With Its Own Special Little Death.

I Simply Write What I Want, Wish, Long To Write.... The State Of Human Life And The God Or Demon Within. The Constant Internal War That Being Alive Can Conjure.

I Like Films, Or Some Films, And Would Be Intrigued To See My Work On Screen.

I'm Not Very Good At Being Alive. Sometimes I Despair Of Ever Mastering It, Getting It Right. When I'm Old, Perhaps.