I hate handing over money to people for doing what I could just as easily do myself, it makes me nervous.

A fierce brief fusion which dreamers call real, and realists, an illusion; an insight like the flight of birds.

If only a group of people were more important to me than the idea of a Novel, I might begin a novel.

And so I rehabilitate myself - staying up late this Friday night in spite of vowing to go to bed early, because it is more important to capture moments like this, keen shifts in mood, sudden veering of direction - than to lose it in slumber.

Please, I want so badly for the good things to happen.

Why am I obsessed with the idea I can justify myself by getting manuscripts published? Is it an escape-an excuse for any social failure-so I can say "No, I don't go out for many extracurricular activities, but I spend a lot of time writing."

Eternity bores me, I never wanted it.