I am rampant with memory.

I can't change what's happened to me in my life, or make what's not occurred take place. But I can't say I like it, or accept it, or believe it's for the best. I don't and never shall, not even if I'm damned for it.

When I say work I only mean writing. Everything else is just odd jobs.

What goes on inside isn't ever the same as what goes on outside.

Holidays are enticing only for the first week or so. After that, it is no longer such a novelty to rise late and have little to do.

I used to think there would be a blinding flash of light someday, and then I would be wise and calm and would know how to cope with everything and my kids would rise up and call me blessed. Now I see that whatever I'm like, I'm pretty well stuck with it for life. Hell of a revelation that turned out to be.

I am rampant with memory.