Words are like clothes; I put them on when I wake-up and take them off when I go to sleep. Words, like numbers provide co-ordinates. It is by means of words that the body of experience is able to systematize the dream. The system is a system of freedoms and constraints, a political system. Imagination is free but only within the constraints of written words; it cannot imagine except by means of metaphors.

Words, like clothes, make the man. The man is a translation of the dream, an expression of the symbolic imagination in words. Written words sever the umbilical cord; the "genuine two-in-one", the intrauterine body is cut in twain. Suddenly there is a family of four, that minimum number of co-ordinates, or, persons required to establish an inside and outside and before and after, period.

This writing is a serious business; without it there is no birth/death. I don't exist in the absence of writing. Writing is rather like running for your life. Harris Creek is still this morning, like the reflecting pool in which we first discover ourselves.