Your Memories Become Fantasies If They Are

Belief And Delusion Are Incestuous Siblings.

Time Does Nothing But Hand You Down Shabbier And Older Things.

Memory Narrativises Itself.

A Particular Piece Of Music Attaches Itself To The Piece I'm Writing, And There Is Nothing Else I Can Listen To. Every Day I Return To The Same Space To Write, The Music Providing Both The Walls And The Pictures On The Walls.

One Builds One's Life In Consistency; One Invests It With The Belief, However Unsupported By Reality, That One Has Always Been What One Is Now, That Even In One's Distant Past One Could Recognize The Seed From Which This Doomed Flower Has Bloomed.