So We Went To Bed, Assaulted By

All Writers Are Exiles Wherever They Live And Their Work Is A Lifelong Journey Towards The Lost Land.

I Don't Wish To Inhabit The Human World Under False Pretences.

Timmy, Who Made A Daring Escape, Also Made A Mistake Of Paying The Taxi Driver With A Check Made Out Of Toilet Paper.

Life Is Hell, But At Least There Are Prizes. Or So One Thought.

The Only Certainty About Writing And Trying To Be A Writer Is That It Has To Be Done, Not Dreamed Of Or Planned And Never Written, Or Talked About (the Ego Eventually Falls Apart Like A Soaked Sponge), But Simply Written; It's A Dreadful, Awful Fact That Writing Is Like Any Other Work.