Who was it that described writing as a form of death? For us, it’s also Life; the painful life of unintelligible entities, of internal chaos and external disarray; the lonely life of disembodiment and surgical rationalizing. So we live and die on pages and screens, we exist in stories within stories within stories, and somewhere somehow we lost sight of the boundary separating reality from fantasy.

Of course I’m repeating myself, that’s ok. It is all part of the process. The mind moves in cycles and refuses to follow its own empty rules, or any imperatives of linearity.