Right Now, I Have No Idea What

She Lights A Match In The Dark Hall And Moves It Onto The Wick Of The Candle. Light Lifts Itself Onto Her Shoulders. She Is On Her Knees. She Puts Her Hands On Her Thighs And Breathes In The Smell Of The Sulphur. She Imagines She Slap Breathes In Light.

I've Always Loved History And History Is Collage, It Is A Juxtaposition Of The Good And The Bad And The Strange, And How You Place Those Sentences Together Changes The Whole Mood Of A History.

Women Want Everything Of A Lover. And Too Often I Would Sink Below The Surface. So Armies Disappear Under Sand. And There Was Her Fear Of Her Husband, Her Belief In Her Honour, My Old Desire For Self-sufficiency, My Disappearances, Her Suspicions Of Me, My Disbelief That She Loved Me. The Paranoia And Claustrophobia Of Hidden Love.

I Promised To Tell You How One Falls In Love.

So The Books For The Englishman, As He Listened Intently Or Not, Had Gaps Of Plot Like Sections Of A Road Washed Out By Storms, Missing Incidents As If Locusts Had Consumed A Section Of Tapestry, As If Plaster Loosened By The Bombing Had Fallen Away From A Mural At Night.