I Am Gripped By An Existential Panic.

Open The Hood Of A Car And It Will Tell You Something About The People Who Designed It, Is Just One Of Many Phrases I’m Tortured By.

A Curtain Of Stars, Miles Of Them, Are Scattered, Glowing, Across The Sky And Their Multitude Humbles Me, Which I Have A Hard Time Tolerating. She Shrugs And Nods After I Say Something About Forms Of Anxiety. It's As If Her Mind Is Having A Hard Time Communicating With Her Mouth, As If She Is Searching For A Rational Analysis Of Who I Am, Which Is, Of Course, An Impossibility: There... Is... No... Key.

Do You Wear A Diaphragm Everywhere You Go?' I Want To Scream, But Stop Myself Because The Idea Really Excites Me.

Why Was I Holding On To Something That Would Never Be Mine? But Isn't That What People Do?

I Learned That You Really Don't Have Any Control As A Writer. Waah, Waah, Waah. Big Deal. Unless You're The Director On The Movie, Or Putting Up The Money For The Movie, You Really Don't Have A Lot Of Control. As Someone Who's Just Writing Scripts, You Just Kind Of Have To Shrug. I Have No Problems Or Issues With Screenwriting In General. It Is What It Is.