So, you've had gonorrhoea, taken LSD, got lost in Paris and slept with your brother's wife. And now you want to write, to cannonise the unspeakable shame that taunts you. Like breaking wind in a confined space you want attention. You like the vanity of writing, leaving traces of yourself against a tree trunk, the thrill of not knowing who might sniff you out. It must take a certain guile to resurrect the lives of others with no apology or footnote. Life is too short you say. I say: sod the lot who cares what you've got to say, writing is the penis extension you have longed for.