Spent the fortnight gone in the music room reworking my year's fragments into a 'sextet for overlapping soloists': piano, clarinet, 'cello, flute, oboe, and violin, each in its own language of key, scale, and color. In the first set, each solo is interrupted by its successor; in the second, each interruption is recontinued, in order. Revolutionary or gimmicky? Shan't know until it's finished, and by then it'll be too late.

I have always preferred maps to books. They don't answer you back.

Perhaps all human interaction is about wanting and getting.

We looked at each other for the last time; nothing is as eloquent as nothing.

Many children are natural fantasists, I think, perhaps because their imaginations have yet to be clobbered into submission by experience.

Whoever dies with the most stuff wins.

All revolutions are the sheerest fantasy until they happen; then they become historical inevitabilities.