As Writers, We Are Exploring The Mystery,

When It Comes To Their Essential Faculty As Writers, All Writers Are Androgynous Beings.

Time Is Change; We Measure Its Passage By How Much Things Alter.

Any Writer Of Any Worth At All Hopes To Play Only A Pocket-torch Of Light - And Rarely, Through Genius, A Sudden Flambeau - Into The Bloody Yet Beautiful Labyrinth Of Human Experience, Of Being.

If I Dreamt This, While Walking, Walking In The London Streets, The Subconscious Of Each And Every Other Life, Past And Present, Brushing Me In Passing, What Makes It Real? Writing It Down.

Disaster Is Private, In Its Way, As Love Is.