Sketches for the start of an eschaton II sequence

Talent is knowing how to get things done; genius is knowing precisely, and at what uttermost perfect point, how to really end them.


Look at us all trying to make it big while the world is ending. Who has the right to a cenotaph of their own choosing?


Love becomes easier to endure the further away from sex you actually go. But that is not to say it doesn’t have its own place on the special scale of that painful brand of bloodless cut and psychic wounding.


There is no why but the when. Wherever we are it is what is then happening and what or who it is happening to.


We only both happen to be here, although one of us is not here. Who am I? Who are you? Speak or be forever spoken to.


But listen. Or anything you say will not be heard, neither by yourself nor by those you would have keenly listen to you.


Kindness appears from afar like the most innnocent of errors but is in fact the highest leap of the collective imagination made by nature since honey bees became beehives. Or books bound authors.


Give a lobster antidepressants and give him something to fight for. Give a man antidepressants and God something worrthy to live for.


I thought I’d finished a book but in fact it was starting. The process of writing another book that knows where it is going.


The internet never became the social hub of cohesion and collective endeavour that it strives to be so hard in places; it has become a swamp of subcultures and polarised ghetto-like circles. It is clearly hieriarchical.


There are places a poet can go unannounced, unnoticed, and with a glance change the warp of the world, and with a word unweave it.


I am bidding on a chance of immortality for more than one generation in the form of becoming the thing I mean to preserve: that is the road, the journey.


The text is like a street lit by gas, strewn with hay and horse dung. But it got you to where you were then.


In many a pile of hay the prick of steel then wisdom.


I am a strange writer with style, but what style I can’t tell: I dress like a homeless disconnected pile of nervous vermin.


To the street rats and eccentrics and quirks I have had to turn my back on: I apologize. The law of the jungle dictates that we cannot acceptably socialize. You stay on your side of the street.


I have found out the hard way what it can mean for an open-minded and agreeable man to be condemned for being innocently indiscreet.


There comes a part of every process or project where all you can do is wait. Identifying those times is essential to getting it done right.


Sleep is like a friend I don’t prod or lean on too often in case she does let me down and I turn against her. I lie with sleep like I lie with a woman the first time you cuddle up close, delicately like a feather.


A seagull can wake me with one of its sonic pipsqueaks. A mouse can exhale with great force in the attic above and my head is in uproar.