8:31) Dirk Flinthart 04-JAN-98 18:40

The shade of Stephen Dedalus sings to me from the screen. Sometimes I wish I smoked. It's a lot easier to be tired, world-weary and cynical with a cigarette spiralling blue in the corner of your vision. Truth is, I'm deep in the heart of deadline deadlock. Can't quite remember the last night of uninterrupted sleep. Reality sidesteps, tangoes with Harry Houdini, and suddenly the only thing left is the keyboard and the screen. Everything else is smoke and Swiss cheese.

It does take over, you know. No matter how prosaic the task of creation, still it calls your all to the fore. Artist's joy, artist's terror: while you are an artist, there is nothing else you can be. Not friend, nor husband, nor lover. Not neighbour, not enemy - nothing but a font. And one can but hope that the water is untainted.

So this is where I am. Trapped rabbitwise by the headlight white glare of the square eye. Outside, in the world my imagination paints there is a sun that shines, there are insects chirring in trees I have created especially for the day. There has been sweet rain, and the air is fresh. I have friends not far away, dancing in sharp wine and laughter.

If only everything remains when I have done.