So We Tell The Same Story, Over

What An Unreliable Thing Is Time--when I Want It To Fly, The Hours Stick To Me Like Glue. And What A Changeable Thing, Too. Time Is The Twine To Tie Our Lives Into Parcels Of Years And Months. Or A Rubber Band Stretched To Suit Our Fancy. Time Can Be The Pretty Ribbon In A Little Girl's Hair. Or The Lines In Your Face, Stealing Your Youthful Colour And Your Hair. .... But In The End, Time Is A Noose Around The Neck, Strangling Slowly.

…god Is A Giant Quiltmaker. With An Infinite Variety Of Designs. And The Quilt Is Grown So Big And Confusing, The Pattern Is Impossible To See, The Squares And Diamonds And Triangles Don’t Fit Well Together Anymore, It’s All Become Meaningless. So He Has Abandoned It.

Birth And Death - What Could Be More Monstrous Than That? We Like To Deceive Ourselves And Call It Wondrous And Beautiful And Majestic, But It's Freakish, Let's Face It.

All Fiction Relies On The Real World In The Sense That We All Take In The World Through Our Five Senses And We Accumulate Details, Consciously Or Subconsciously. This Accumulation Of Detail Can Be Drawn On When You Write Fiction.

If There Was An Abundance Of Misery In The World, There Was Also Sufficient Joy, Yes - As Long As One Knew Where To Look For It.