He would work through the night and sleep until lunch. There wasn't really much else to do. Make something, and die.

He saw it for the first time: on the day he died he would be wearing unmatching socks, there would be unanswered e-mails, and in the hovel he called home there would still be shirts missing cuff buttons, a malfunctioning light in the hall, and unpaid bills, uncleared attics, dead flies, friends waiting for a reply and lovers he had not owned up to.

If life was a dream, then dying must be the moment when you woke up. It was so simple it must be true. You died, the dream was over, you woke up. That's what people meant when they talked about going to heaven. It was like waking up.

The moment you have children and a mortgage you want things to work; you're locked into the human project and you want it to flourish.

Narrative Tension is primarily about witholding information.

I'm sorry to disappoint you, but my experience belongs to me, not the collective bloody unconscious.