We talked filth for a pleasant half hour.

There are things in life we don't understand, and when we meet them, all we can do is let them alone.

We talked filth for a pleasant half hour.

She's half mad and three parts drunk.

When you experience bereavement at a youngish age, you suddenly realise that life is unjust and unfair, that bad things will happen, and you have to take that on board.

The only times we are consciously aware of the authorship of a photograph, I would argue, are when we contemplate the photographs we ourselves have taken (or those of friends and family) or when we go deliberately to the photographers monograph or exhibition. The signed image - the appropriated, the owned image - is by far the rarest in this pullulating world of pictures.

Humankind can tolerate only so much rejection.