Jogging, I Believe They Call It. It

I Respect A Man Who Can Recognize A Quotation. It's A Dying Art.

Whhheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! The Scream Of Jet Engines Rises To A Crescendo On The Runways Of The World. Every Second, Somewhere Or Other, A Plane Touches Down, With A Puff Of Smoke From Scorched Tyre Rubber, Or Rises In The Air, Leaving A Smear Of Black Fumes Dissolving In Its Wake. From Space, The Earth Might Look To A Fanciful Eye Like A Huge Carousel, With Planes Instead Of Horses Spinning Round Its Circumference, Up And Down, Up And Down. Whhheeeeeeeeeee!

Every Decoding Is Another Encoding.

It Was Adam Appleby's Misfortune That At The Moment Of Awakening From Sleep His Consciousness Was Immediately Flooded With Everything He Least Wanted To Think About

It's The Only Thing That Keeps Me Going These Days, Travelling. Changes Of Scene, Changes Of Faces