Let me be unambiguous. I prefer not to be photographed.

A screaming comes across the sky.

Someday she might replace whatever of her had gone away by some prosthetic device, a dress of a certain color, a phrase in a letter, another lover.

Darkness invades the dreams of the glassblower. Of all the unpleasantries his dreams grab in out of the night air, an extinguished light is the worst. Light in his dreams, was always hope: the basic, moral hope. As the contacts break helically away, hope turns to darkness, and the glassblower wakes sharply tonight crying, "Who? Who?"

Shall I project a world?

Explosion without an objective', declared Miles Blundell, 'is politics in its purest form'.

Can't say it often enough — change your hair, change your life.