I've discovered I've got this preoccupation with ordinary people pursued by large forces.

He hangs on now, pressing his hand lightly against the wall, below the window, waiting for the familiar arrow of pain. Only there is none. An oddly pleasant swell of memory, a wave of warmth flooding over him, sliding back, slowly. It is a first

Depending on the reality one must face, one may prefer to opt for illusion.

Rock isn't art, it's the way ordinary people talk.

Never love anyone who treats you like you're ordinary.

His life was unrecorded; who is there to write down the lives of ordinary people?