England Has Become A Squalid, Uncomfortable, Ugly

If You Never Left Anything Or Anyone There Would Be No Room For The New. Naturally, To Move On Is An Infidelity -- To Others, To The Past, To Old Notions Of Oneself. Perhaps Every Day Should Contain At Least One Essential Infidelity Or Necessary Betrayal. It Would Be An Optimistic, Hopeful Act, Guaranteeing Belief In The Future -- A Declaration That Things Can Be Not Only Different But Better.

I Guess Writing Is A Kind Of Therapy In The Sense That There Are Things You Need To Say And You Say Them, And Better Out Than In.

If Jealousy Was The Vindaloo Of Love, I'd Imagined Her Tongue Burning, And Such A Fire Forcing Her To Spill Her Truth.

Love Cannot Be Measured By Its Duration.

I Am Determined To Live Without Illusions. I Want To Look At Reality Straight. Without Hiding.