There I went again, building up a glamorous picture of a man who would love me passionately the minute he met me, and all out of a few prosy nothings.

We stayed at home to write, to consolidate our outstretched selves.

Remember, remember, this is now, and now, and now. Live it, feel it, cling to it. I want to become acutely aware of all I’ve taken for granted.

I love life. But it is hard and I have so much, so very much to learn.

I don’t care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual.

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?

Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing.