The light of morning decomposes everything.

Everything was too sharp and clear, so that I could never tell where to start- the way a map that shows too much can sometimes be useless.

One foot in front of the other. Repeat as often as necessary to finish.

There is nothing so cruel in this world as the desolation of having nothing to hope for.

I'm always tripped up by the eternal who am I?

I don't know a whole lot about symbolism. There seems to me to be a potential danger in symbolism. I feel more comfortable with metaphors and similes.

My priority is my books, at least at this point. What I have to do is write the narrative of this time.