Very few people ever manage what nature manages without effort and mostly without fail. We don't know who we are or how to function, much less how to bloom. Blind nature. Homo Sapiens. Who's kidding whom?
In the library I felt better, words you could trust and look at till you understood them, they couldn't change half way through a sentence like people, so it was easier to spot a lie.
I believe in communication; books communicate ideas and make bridges between people.
I don't understand why people talk of art as a luxury when it's a mind-altering possibility.
I like to look at how people work together when they are put into stressful situations, when life stops being cozy.
I think people deceive themselves about themselves, particularly as they get older.
London is a small place, and it is very incestuous. People know where you live. Everybody is sort of on top of each other.
Many people feel their outer self isn't the whole self.
My friends and the people who are close to me know what I am. And that is enough.
One room is always enough for one person. Two rooms is not enough for two people. That is one of the conundrums in life.
What to say? That the end of love is a haunting. A haunting of dreams. A haunting of silence. Haunted by ghosts it is easy to become a ghost. Life ebbs. The pulse is too faint. Nothing stirs you. Some people approve of this and call it healing. It is not healing. A dead body feels no pain.
I went outside, tripping over slabs of sunshine the size of towns. The sun was like a crowd of people, it was a party, it was music. The sun was blaring through the walls of the houses and beating down the steps. The Sun was drumming time into the stone. The sun was rhythming the day.