Children are knives, my mother once said. They don’t mean to, but they cut. And yet we cling to them, don’t we, we clasp them until the blood flows.

Online communities are an expression of loneliness.

I dream a lot, in colour and in sound and scent. Quite a few of my stories have come from dreams.

Happiness. Simple as a glass of chocolate or tortuous as the heart. Bitter. Sweet. Alive.

If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

The wind always brings us back to the same wall

I'm phobic about the idea of being constrained.