By Helping Yourself, You Are Helping Humankind.

The Past Is Just Something That's Over.

Horror Is Always Aware Of Its Cause; Terror Never Is. That Is Precisely What Makes Terror Terrifying.

The Landscape, Like Los Angeles Itself, Is Transitional. Impermanence Haunts The City, With Its Mushroom Industries--the Aircraft Perpetually Becoming Obsolete, The Oil Which Must One Day Be Exhausted, The Movies Which Fill America's Theatres For Six Months And Are Forgotten. Many Of Its Houses--especially The Grander Ones--have A Curiously Disturbing Atmosphere, A Kind Of Psychological Dankness Which Smells Of Anxiety, Overdrafts, Uneasy Lust, Whisky, Divorce And Lies.

As They Embrace, She Kisses Him Full On The Mouth. And Suddenly Sticks Her Tongue Right In. She Has Done This Before, Often. It’s One Of Those Drunken Long Shots Which Just Might, At Least Theoretically, Once In Ten Thousand Tries, Throw A Relationship Right Out Of Its Orbit And Send It Whizzing Off On Another. Do Women Ever Stop Trying? No. But, Because They Never Stop, They Learn To Be Good Losers.

But Now Isn’t Simply Now. Now Is Also A Cold Reminder: One Whole Day Later Than Yesterday, One Year Later Than Last Year. Every Now Is Labeled With Its Date, Rendering All Past Nows Obsolete, Until — Later Of Sooner — Perhaps — No, Not Perhaps — Quite Certainly: It Will Come.