I Like Shape Very Much. A Novel

Everything Tender And Melancholy - As Life Is Sometimes, Just For One Moment.

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.

The Feeling Of Sunday Is The Same Everywhere, Heavy, Melancholy, Standing Still.

I Would Never Be Part Of Anything. I Would Never Really Belong Anywhere, And I Knew It, And All My Life Would Be The Same, Trying To Belong, And Failing. Always Something Would Go Wrong. I Am A Stranger And I Always Will Be, And After All I Didn’t Really Care.

It Was The Darkness That Got You. It Was Heavy Darkness, Greasy And Compelling. It Made Walls Round You, And Shut You In So That You Felt Like You Could Not Breathe.