The World Is Not Real For Me

...being Alone With Him Was Like Being In A Room Which Someone Had Just Violently Left

A Plot Begins When Somebody Has Something To Hide.

Sleep Is Uncanny, I Have Always Found It So, A Nightly Dress-rehearsal For Being Dead.

For Memory, We Use Our Imagination. We Take A Few Strands Of Real Time And Carry Them With Us, Then Like An Oyster We Create A Pearl Around Them.

Perhaps All Of Life Is No More Than A Long Preparation For The Leaving Of It.