Writing is like carrying a fetus.

There was always a real reason for everything - why spoons tarnished, and jam furred, and people declined into God, or drink, or card games.

I was lonelier than I should be, for a woman in love, or half in love.

I know the mistake I am making. I see the exits in life.

Money talks, but tell me why all it says is just Goodbye.

...people liking you or not liking you is an accident and is to do with them and not you. That goes for love too, only more so.

The other me, who did not mean to drown herself, went under the sea and remained there for a long time. Eventually she surfaced near Japan and people gave her gifts but she had been so long under the sea she did not recognize what they were. She is a sly one. Mostly at night we commune. Night. Harbinger of dream and nightmare and bearer of omens which defy the music of words. In the morning the fear of her going is very real and very alarming. It can make one tremble. Not that she cares. She is the muse. I am the messenger.