The past is an obdurate stranger that puts as many marks on us as we attempt to impose on it.

Clones fit in. Freaks stand out. Ask me which one I prefer.

I like autumn. The drama of it; the golden lion roaring through the back door of the year, shaking its mane of leaves. A dangerous time; of violent rages and deceptive calm, of fireworks in the pockets and conkers in the fist.

Anything that can be dreamed is true.

I'm phobic about the idea of being constrained.

Like a domestic cat, purring on the sofa by day, but by night, a strutting queen, a natural killer, disdainful of her other life.

Some things can be both real and imaginary at the same time, . . . some lies can be true, . . . broken faith may be restored.