Scars Are Memory. Like Sutures. They Stitch

A City Like London Was Always Going To Be A Paradox, The Best Of It So Very Riddled With The Opposite, So Swiss-cheesed With Moral Holes.

My Dad Hates Umbrellas, Said Deeba, Swinging Her Own. When It Rains He Always Says The Same Thing. 'i Do Not Believe The Presence Of Moisture In The Air Is Sufficient Reason To Overturn Society's Usual Sensible Taboo Against Wielding Spiked Clubs At Eye Level.

There Are Only So Many Ways To Experience Pain. There Are An Almost Limitless Number Of Ways To Inflict It, But The Pain Itself, Initially Vividly Distinct In All Its Specifications, Becomes, Inevitably, Just Pain.

Perhaps The Window Is Not A Sun But An Asterisk, Interrupting The Grammar Of The Sky, With Me Sitting Below It Like A Footnote.

Old Stories Would Tell How Weavers Would Kill Each Other Over Aesthetic Disagreements, Such As Whether It Was Prettier To Destroy An Army Of A Thousand Men Or To Leave It Be, Or Whether A Particular Dandelion Should Or Should Not Be Plucked. For A Weaver, To Think Was To Think Aesthetically. To Act - To Weave - Was To Bring About More Pleasing Patterns. They Did Not Eat Physical Food: They Seemed To Subsist On The Appreciation Of Beauty.