The world is not real for me until it has been pushed through the mesh of language.
Enormous morning, ponderous, meticulous; gray light streaking each bare branch, each single twig, along one side, making another tree, of glassy veins.
Sleep is uncanny, I have always found it so, a nightly dress-rehearsal for being dead.
I don't own a Kindle, no. I love books, they are beautiful objects.
In order really to write one has to sink deep into the self and become lost there.
I've always been fascinated by physics and cosmology. It gets more and more scary the older you get.