Slightest accidents open up new worlds.

Everyone thinks their own situation most tragic. I am no exception.

She was a committed romantic and an anarcha-feminist. This was hard for her because it meant she couldn't blow up beautiful buildings. She knew the Eiffel Tower was a hideous symbol of phallic oppression but when ordered by her commander to detonate the lift so that no-one should unthinkingly scale an erection, her mind filled with young romantics gazing over Paris and opening aerograms that said Je t'aime.

You know every cell in our bodies is completely renewed every seven years, so how can we talk about being the same person? We're absolutely not.

One room is always enough for one person. Two rooms is not enough for two people. That is one of the conundrums in life.

Part fact part fiction is what life is. And it is always a cover story. I wrote my way out.

Memory loss is one way of coping with damage.