Well, We're Meant To Be

I Suffer Depression Only In The Sense That I Am A Writer. We Don't Have Proper Jobs To Go To. We Are On Our Own All Day. Show Me A Writer Who Doesn't Get Depressed: Who Has A Completely Stable Mood. They'd Be A Garage Mechanic Or Something.

I Rolled Back Onto The Lawn And Pressed My Forehead To The Ground Again And Made The Noise That Father Calls Groaning. I Make This Noise When There Is Too Much Information Coming Into My Head From The Outside World. It Is Like When You Are Upset And You Hold The Radio Against Your Ear And You Tune It Halfway Between Two Stations So That All You Get Is White Noise And Then You Turn The Volume Right Up So That This Is All Can Hear And Then You Know You Are Safe Because You Cannot Hear Anything Else

Siobhan Said That When You Are Writing A Book You Have To Include Some Descriptions Of Things. I Said That I Could Take Photographs And Put Them In The Book. But She Said The Idea Of A Book Was To Describe Things Using Words So That People Could Read Them And Make A Picture In Their Own Head.

I Could Invent Another World. I'm Not Terribly Keen On This One.

He Was Asking Too Many Questions And He Was Asking Them Too Quickly. They Were Stacking Up In My Head Like Loaves In The Factory Where Uncle Terry Works. The Factory Is A Bakery And He Operates The Slicing Machines. And Sometimes A Slicer Is Not Working Fast Enough But The Bread Keeps Coming And There Is A Blockage. I Sometimes Think Of My Mind As A Machine, But Not Always As A Bread-slicing Machine. It Makes It Easier To Explain To Other People What Is Going On Inside It.