Writing is such a damn lonely sickness.

Italians give their city sexes, and they all agree that the sex for a particular city is quite correct, but none of them can explain why. I love that. London's middle-aged and male, respectably married but secretly gay.

But no, we cross, crisscross, and recross our old tracks like figure skaters.

Dreams are all I have ever truly owned.

I really wish they hadn't made the set out of asbestos.

As many truths as men. Occasionally, I glimpse a truer Truth, hiding in imperfect simulacrums of itself, but as I approach, it bestirs itself & moves deeper into the thorny swamp of dissent.

Once any tyranny becomes accepted as ordinary, its victory is assured.