I Listen Mostly To Classical Music.

There's A Point At Which Writing A Book, Or A Long Article, Begins To Feel Like Mental Labor, And It's Too Painful To Connect In The World In Any Real Way Mid-process. The Only Way To Survive Is To Write Until It Is All Said And Done.

The Rains Are Rhythmic, Coming Religiously In The Afternoons (after Lunch Has Been Eaten But Before Tea, So That The Nights Are Washed Clean-black With Bright Pinpoints Of Silver Starlight Hanging Over A Restless, Grateful Earth).

Once, I Discovered The Skulls Of Two Impala Rams, Their Horns Locked Into An Irreversible Figure-of-eight; The Two Animals Had Been Trapped In Combat, Latched To Each Other During The Battle Of The Rut. The Harder They Had Pulled To Escape From Each Other, The More Intractably Stuck They Were, Until They Had Fallen Exhausted, To Their Knees, In An Embrace Of Hatred That Had Killed Them Both.

I Had The Constitution Of A Missionary.

I Always Knew Mum Loved Me - Tough, Look-after-yourself Love, As If She Knew She Wouldn't Always Be There.