I woke to the sound of rain.

Kiss me and you will see how important I am.

I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me.

My mother smiled. 'I knew my baby wasn't like that.'I looked at her. 'Like what?'Like those awful people. Those awful dead people at that hospital.' She paused. 'I knew you'd decide to be all right again.

You must create the right kind of dream, the sober, adult kind of magic: illusion born from disillusion.

Feel oddly barren. My sickness is when words draw in their horns and the physical world refuses to be ordered, recreated, arranged and selected. I am a victim of it then, not a master.