There is a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing just how bad things can get.
One thing, I try to be honest. And what is revealed is often rather hideously unflattering.
We must be moving, working, making dreams to run toward; the poverty of life without dreams is too horrible to imagine.
I’ll never speak to God again.
Every day one has to earn the name of 'writer' over again, with much wrestling.
Why the hell are we conditioned into the smooth strawberry-and-cream Mother-Goose-world, Alice-in-Wonderland fable, only to be broken on the wheel as we grow older and become aware of ourselves as individuals with a dull responsibility in life?