He's Stuck At 3:14 A.m. With Only

We Don't Really Believe In Mowing The Lawn; We Do It Only To Avoid Unnecessary Engagement With The Neighbors.

I Cried In English, I Cried In French, I Cried In All The Languages, Because Tears Are The Same All Around The World.

I'm Interested In What The Virtues Of All Those Things Are, Especially For The Kind Of Person Who's Made Their Own World That Revolves Around Them, Like Writers Do. It Seems Especially Precious.

I Nodded, Pretending I Was Relaxed. I Watched The Sunlight Sparkling On The Water And Practiced Mind-body Integration For A Few Seconds By Quietly Hyperventilating.

You've Got The People You Know, Which Are Problematic. Always. They're Rich But They're Also Real People Living Their Lives Alongside You. Then You've Got The People That You Make-up Completely, Who Are Often Missing A Dimension If They Don't Have Some Reference To Real People. So Strangers Exist In This In-between Space, Where In Not Knowing Them, You Are Creating A Fiction For Them, Even In Passing, But At The Same Time, There They Are, With Their Actual Bodies And Their Actual Clothes. It's Totally Enticing.