Telling The Truth Is A

I Don’t Know Where The Universe Came From Or What Happens To Creatures When They Die. I Don’t Know If The Whole Thing’s An Unravelling Accident Or An Inscrutable Design. I Don’t Know How One Should Live—but I Know That One Should Live, If One Can Possibly Bear It.

Life's Generally Artless ... But It Does Get These Occasional Hard-ons For Plot. It Connects Things, Nefariously, Behind Your Back, And Before You Know It You're In The Final Act Of A Lousy Movie.

Time, You'll Be Pleased To Know--and Since One Must Start Somewhere--was Created In Creation. The Question What Was There Before Creation? Is Meaningless. Time Is A Property Of Creation, Therefore Before Creation There Was No Before Creation.

There’s A Reason Humans Peg-out Around Eighty: Prose Fatigue. It Looks Like Organ Failure Or Cancer Or Stroke But It’s Really Just The Inability To Carry On Clambering Through The Assault Course Of Mundane Cause And Effect. If We Ask Sheila Then We Can’t Ask Ron. If I Have The Kippers Now Then It’s Quiche For Tea. Four Score Years Is About All The Ifs And Thens You Can Take. Dementia’s The Sane Realisation You Just Can’t Be Doing With All That Anymore.

My Mother Once Told Me She Thought Hell Would Be Nothing More Than Being Given A Glimpse Of God--then Having It Taken Away, Forever.