Death Is A Dramatic Accomplishment Of Absence;

It Is Always Hard To Believe That The Will To Change Something Does Not Produce An Immediate Change.

All Writers Are Exiles Wherever They Live And Their Work Is A Lifelong Journey Towards The Lost Land.

The Only Certainty About Writing And Trying To Be A Writer Is That It Has To Be Done, Not Dreamed Of Or Planned And Never Written, Or Talked About (the Ego Eventually Falls Apart Like A Soaked Sponge), But Simply Written; It's A Dreadful, Awful Fact That Writing Is Like Any Other Work.

The Sun Is All Love And Murder, Judgement, The Perpetual Raid Of Conscience, Paratrooping Light Which Opens Like A Snow-blossom In The Downward Drift Of Death. Wherever I Turn - The Golden Cymbals Of Judgement, The Summoning Of The Torturers Of Light.

Electricity, The Peril The Wind Sings To In The Wires On A Gray Day.