...She's understood the power of stories. Their magical ability to refill the wounded part of people.

Photographs force us to see people before their future weighed them down, before they knew their endings.

She doesn't know I cry for the changing times. That just as I reread favourite books, some small part of me hoping for a different ending, I find myself hoping against hope that the war will never come. That this time, somehow, it will leave us be.

There were two now where they had been three. David's death had dismantled the triangle, and an enclosed space was now open. Two points are unreliable; with nothing to anchor them, there is nothing to stop them drifting in opposite directions. If it is string that binds, it will eventually snap and the points will separate; if elastic, they will continue to part, further and further, until the strain reaches its limit and they are pulled back with such speed that they cannot help but collide with devastating force.

While I wasn't certain how I felt about spiritualists, I was certain enough about the type of people who were drawn to them. Only people unhappy in the present seek to know the future.

In retrospect, it seems like everything in my life led to me becoming a writer. I just didn't realise it at the time.

In each man's heart there lies a hole. A dark abyss of need, the filling of which takes precedence over all else.