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.

You're beautiful, but you're somewhere else. That's okay. I can handle that. But we won't continue as friends, not just now. I like you as a lover, not a friend.

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.

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

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.

When you can stop you don't want to, and when you want to stop, you can't.

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