Why am I always looking at life through a window? And after it’s all over I’m sick with myself because there is so little time left for me to read and write and think, and because I should know better than to drug my mind with this dishonest stuff that’s aimed at the child in me.

First the theatre, then the cinema, the television, the computer, and now our phones. Why do we always seem to want to look at the world through a window? What is at about reality that we are all so desperate to escape.

Drinking too, to that pure escape. My mind is a war zone, always churning and turning, riling and writhing, vomiting up old ideas, distant memories, painful regrets. And sometimes it’s too much, and the drinking lobotomises that part of me, and so I love to drink.