The very concept of solid ground is a myth. The galaxy itself is adrift.

Everything comes to nothing in the end, I suppose. Or at least, nothing happens exactly the way we imagine it.

Love could be fractured and serve different purposes, and that intense love could be divided, between people just as easily as between moments of time.

From time to time it has struck me that as a writer, I've somehow managed to live my life as I had long ago dreamt of doing, based on the Tintin paradigm: on my toes, travelling, senses attentuated, everything just adventure and exploration, curiosity and problem-solving.

The wonder to me is not that she made it through at all but that she made it through so relatively intact, so vibrant. So free of bitterness and so empty of resentment.

And I come to realise that all my small todays, the way I act, will lead into my tomorrows.

Drought brings out the worst in us and it's easy to hate your fellow human beings.