Over the years, confusing fragments, lost corners of stories, have a clearer meaning when seen in a new light, a different place.

What is interesting and important happens mostly in secret, in places where there is no power.

I often need a limited space. It's like having a house to roam around in and reinvent and have things to happen in, kind of like a French farce. Doors opening, doors closing, new people arriving, and disappearing, and so forth.

...the heart is an organ of fire.

Sleep is a prison for a boy who has friends to meet.

Right now, I have no idea what I will write or if I will write again.

Women want everything of a lover. And too often I would sink below the surface. So armies disappear under sand. And there was her fear of her husband, her belief in her honour, my old desire for self-sufficiency, my disappearances, her suspicions of me, my disbelief that she loved me. The paranoia and claustrophobia of hidden love.