If People Don't Read, That's

The Day Is Refracted, And The Next And The One After That, All Of Them Broken Up Into A Hundred Juggled Segments, Each Brilliant And Self-contained So That The Hours Are No Longer Linear But Assorted Like Bright Sweets In A Jar.

But Who Knows Their Own Child? You Know Bits - Certain Predictable Reactions, A Handful Of Familiar Qualities. The Rest Is Impenetrable. And Quite Right Too. You Give Birth To Them. You Do Not Design Them.

I Am Addicted To Arrivals, To Those Innocent Dawn Moments From Which History Accelerates.

We Make Choices But Are Constantly Foiled By Happenstance.

The Days Of Our Lives Vanish Utterly, More Insubstantial Than If They Had Been Invented. Fiction Can Seem More Enduring Than Reality.