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.

If time stood still, and we could choose the time, the best time, then love without pain would be all I know.

Imperceptibly, more time passes when I'm not remembering our every moment together, not recreating our every conversation, re-imagining our love-making. It is immeasurably sad.

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

I will meet you on the nape of your neck one day, on the surface of intention, word becoming act. We will breathe into each other the high mountain tales, where the snows come from, where the waters begin.” -In the yellow time of pollen

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.

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