London Is Like A Cold Dark Dream

As It Was In The Beginning, ... Is Now, And Ever Shall Be, World Without End.

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.

Sometimes The Earth Trembles; Sometimes You Can Feel It Breathe.

There Is Always The Other Side, Always.

Very Few People Change After Well Say Seven Or Seventeen. Not Really. They Get More This Or More That And Of Course Look A Bit Different. But Inside They Are The Same.