I Say That Home Is

Pain Is Easy To Write. In Pain We're All Happily Individual. But What Can One Write About Happiness?

He Couldn't Tell That This Was One Of Those Occasions A Man Never Forgets: A Small Cicatrice Had Been Made On The Memory, A Wound That Would Ache Whenever Certain Things Combined - The Taste Of Gin At Mid-day, The Smell Of Flowers Under A Balcony, The Clang Of Corrugated Iron, An Ugly Bird Flopping From Perch To Perch.

Destruction After All Is A Form Of Creation.

Innocence Is Like A Dumb Leper Who Has Lost His Bell, Wandering The World, Meaning No Harm.

Innocence Is A Kind Of Insanity