The Soul Is A Magician. Only Living

Maidens Who Stay Maidens Turn Into Saints. Old Women Become Sorceresses. Tough Jobs, Both Of These.

Whatever The Hell I Am, I Am Me.

I Tend Not To Analyse My Work, Though I'm Frequently Intrigued When Other People Take Time To Do So.

It's Very Selfish When I Write. I'm Not Aware, Ever, Of Writing For Another Person; I'm Not Even Really Aware Of Writing For Myself.

What Is Any Of This To Us? Time Is Endless And Ours. Love And Death Are Only The Games We Play In It.