I have reached that edge now,
of things that will not synch. My
book is closed, my ink-pen gone.
Only for the nonce. I know it shall
all open up again. The man who
spoke of what I go through, he had
it right in saying - 'I've got the
thoughts, I understand my own
work and all the language with it,
the damn thing is getting it on the
page. That's what always kills me.'
'We lie in order to live, and in our
time our lives become the lies.
The writer can see and understand
the lies. He does so without
judgement. Everything else
emanates from this.'