It’s time for the day to be over. We throw our parties; we abandon our families to live alone; we struggle to write books that do not change the world, despite our gifts and unstinting efforts, our most extravagant hopes. We live our lives, do whatever we do, and then we sleep – it’s simple and ordinary as that.

A few jump out of windows or drown themselves or take pills, more die by accident; and most of us, the vast majority, are slowly devoured by some disease, or if we’re very fortunate by time itself.

There’s just some consolation: an hour here or there when our lives seem, against all odds and expectations, to burst open and give us everything we’ve ever imagined though everyone but children (and perhaps even they)  knows these hours will inevitably b y others far darker and more difficult.

Still, we cherish the city, the morning: we hope, more than anything, for more. Heaven only knows why we love it so.

The Hours, Michael Cunningham




I can’t imagine this tattoo would go down well in Iraq.


Humans generate enough madness in the world without conjuring up visions of the devil and blaming it on satanic hocus pocus. Too much TV. Too much religion.


Moved office today.  Our new pleasure zone has all the atmosphere and camaraderie of a morgue.

Have a window seat overlooking a scene of unremitting urban gloom.

A flyover buzzes over battleship grey.

If ever a view could inspire one to contemplate suicide then this is.

The fragrant eau du cologne of a London summer reaches my concrete eyrie. A heady cocktail of warm tarmac, dog shit and traffic fumes wafting up from London’s sweating carcass. Summer in the city. You can’t beat it.

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