Their love was something which coloured the air between them like sunlight.
Clones fit in. Freaks stand out. Ask me which one I prefer.
I dream a lot, in colour and in sound and scent. Quite a few of my stories have come from dreams.
Children are knives, my mother once said. They donโt mean to, but they cut. And yet we cling to them, donโt we, we clasp them until the blood flows.
I'm insatiably curious.
Sheep are not the docile, pleasant creatures of the pastoral idyll. Any countryman will tell you that. They are sly, occasionally vicious, pathologically stupid. The lenient shepherd may find his flock unruly, definant. I cannot afford to be lenient.