Oh. To Be Filled With

Tonight I Can Smell The Season The Way It's Usually Only Possible To At The Very First Moments Of Its Return, Before You're Used To It, When You've Forgotten Its Smell, Then There It Is Back In The Air And The Flow Of Things Shifting And Resettling Again.

You Never Know If You're A Writer. You Can't Trust It. If You Woke Up And Said, "i'm A Writer," It Would Be Gone. You Wouldn't See Anything For Miles - Even The Dust Would Be Running Away.

Do You Come To Art To Be Comforted, Or Do You Come To Art To Be Re-skinned?

My Father Is From Newark In Nottinghamshire And My Mother Is From The Very North Of Ireland. They've Ended Up In Scotland, Where My Father - Well, Both Of Them - Will Always Be Seen As Having Come From Somewhere Else.

Even Things Which Seem Separate And Finished Are Infinitely Connected And Will Infinitely Connect. This Connection Happens As Soon As You Let It, As Soon As You Engage - As Soon As You Even Attempt To Engage.