All Of A Writer That

It Is Strange How Sad It Can Be - Sunlight In The Afternoon, Don't You Think?

All Of Writing Is A Huge Lake. There Are Great Rivers That Feed The Lake, Like Tolstoy Or Dostoyevsky. And Then There Are Mere Trickles, Like Jean Rhys. All That Matters Is Feeding The Lake. I Don't Matter. The Lake Matters. You Must Keep Feeding The Lake.

As Soon As I Turned The Key I Saw It Hanging, The Color Of Fire And Sunset. The Colour Of Flamboyant Flowers. ‘if You Are Buried Under A Flamboyant Tree, ‘ I Said, ‘your Soul Is Lifted Up When It Flowers. Everyone Wants That.’ She Shook Her Head But She Did Not Move Or Touch Me.

If I Was Bound For Hell, Let It Be Hell. No More False Heaven. No More Damned Magic.

We Can't All Be Happy, We Can't All Be Rich, We Can't All Be Lucky - And It Would Be So Much Less Fun If We Were... There Must Be The Dark Background To Show Up The Bright Colours.