All of my life's disappointments should be put down to irresponsible storytelling, primarily unrealistic endings. First of all nothing ends. And when it finally does, I won’t be around to know. Anyway, after reading too many stories with neatly tied together endings, I was left with a sense that someday my life will all come together, and I will be able to kick back and look at it, as if it were frozen in time. But life is not like that at all. It’s not linear. It has more dimensions and twists and turns and cotton and blankets and heights and bejewelled tunnelled eyed ghouls with lipstick dripping from the corners of their spherical dreamscape ambition and falls, water lilies and crystal clear madness than anyone could imagine. Maybe all endings should just cease to exist. In your journal, write down a different ending to your favourite book.