I Speak As I Must And Cannot

Places Do Not Lose Their Identity, However Far One Travels. It Is The Heart That Begins To Erode Over Time. The Face In The Hotel Mirror Seems Blurred Some Mornings, As If By Too Many Casual Looks. By Ten The Sheets Will Be Laundered, The Carpet Swept. The Names On The Hotel Registers Change As We Pass. We Leave No Trace As We Pass On. Ghostlike, We Cast No Shadow.

One Of The Things That Writing Has Taught Me Is That Fiction Has A Life Of Its Own. Fictional Places Are Sometimes More Real Than The View From Our Bedroom Window. Fictional People Can Sometimes Become As Close To Us As Our Loved Ones.

Some People Spend The Whole Of Their Lives Sitting Waiting For One Train, Only To Find That They Never Even Made It To The Station.

Wine Talks; Ask Anyone. The Oracle At The Street Corner; The Uninvited Guest At The Wedding Feast; The Holy Fool. It Ventriloquizes. It Has A Million Voices. It Unleashes The Tongue, Teasing Out Secrets You Never Meant To Tell, Secrets You Never Even Knew. It Shouts, Rants, Whispers. It Speaks Of Great Plans, Tragic Loves, And Terrible Betrayals. It Screams With Laughter. It Chuckles Softly To Itself. It Weeps In Front Of Its Own Reflection. It Revives Summers Long Past And Memories Best Forgotten. Every Bottle A Whiff Of Other Times, Other Places, Everyone...a Humble Miracle

I Dream A Lot, In Colour And In Sound And Scent. Quite A Few Of My Stories Have Come From Dreams.