What are we doing here, that is the question.
The memory came faint and cold of the story I might have told, a story in the likeness of my life, I mean without the courage to end or the strength to go on.
Silence and darkness were all I craved. Well, I get a certain amount of both. They being one.
I did not want to write, but I had to resign myself to it in the end.
An imaginative adventure does not enjoy the same corsets as reportage.
The end is in the beginning and yet you go on.