It's Almost As If We're Put Here

I'll Never Retire. They'll Have To Take My Computer Out Of My Cold, Dead Hands. I'm Addicted To Writing. I Feel Physically Unwell If I'm Not Doing It.

Time's Arrow, We Are Told, Is A One-way Thing. . . Memory's Arrow, Like The Needle Of A Compass Too Close To A Lodestone, Spins In All Directions.

Is There An Existence That Is Only Mine?

An Ordinary Mirror Is Silvered At The Back But The Window Of The Night Train Has Darkness Behind The Glass. My Face And The Faces Of Other Travellers Were Now Mirrored On This Darkness In A Succession Of Stillnesses. Consider This, Said The Darkness: Any Motion At Any Speed Is A Succession Of Stillnesses; Any Section Through An Action Will Show Just Such A Plane Of Stillness As This Dark Window In Which Your Seeking Face Is Mirrored. And In Each Plane Of Stillness Is The Moment Of Clarity That Makes You Responsible For What You Do.

Usually My Starting Point Is Something That I've Seen. It Might Be A Painting, It Might Be An Object. But They Always Start From A Definite Sensory Experience.