For 10 Or 11 Years, I Had

I Am A Trembling Mess From Hip To Knee. There Is A Terrible Heat, A Looseness In My Innards That Makes Me Want To Dig My Fists Between My Thighs. It Is A Confusing Feeling - Somewhere Between Diarrhoea And Sex - This Grief That Is Almost Genital.

I Love The Characters Not Knowing Everything And The Reader Knowing More Than Them. There's More Mischief In That And More Room For Seriousness, Too.

There Is Nothing As Tentative As An Old Woman's Touch; As Loving Or As Horrible.

And What Amazes Me As I Hit The Motorway Is Not The Fact That Everyone Loses Someone, But That Everyone Loves Someone. It Seems Like Such A Massive Waste Of Energy -- And We All Do It, All The People Beetling Along Between The White Lines, Merging, Converging, Overtaking. We Each Love Someone, Even Though They Will Die. And We Keep Loving Them, Even When They Are Not There To Love Any More. And There Is No Logic Or Use To Any Of This, That I Can See.

God, I Hate My Family, These People I Never Chose To Love, But Love All The Same.