Next Week, Or Next Month, Or Next

Very Few People Change After Well Say Seven Or Seventeen. Not Really. They Get More This Or More That And Of Course Look A Bit Different. But Inside They Are The Same.

Now I No Longer Wish To Be Loved, Beautiful, Happy Or Successful. I Want One Thing And One Thing Only - To Be Left Alone.

The Feeling Of Sunday Is The Same Everywhere, Heavy, Melancholy, Standing Still.

All Of Writing Is A Huge Lake. There Are Great Rivers That Feed The Lake, Like Tolstoy Or Dostoyevsky. And Then There Are Mere Trickles, Like Jean Rhys. All That Matters Is Feeding The Lake. I Don't Matter. The Lake Matters. You Must Keep Feeding The Lake.

The Last Time You Were Happy About Nothing; The First Time You Were Afraid About Nothing. Which Came First?