I Hate The Beach. I Hate The

If I Could Only See One Miracle, Just One Miracle. Like A Burning Bush, Or The Seas Part, Or My Uncle Sasha Pick Up A Check.

I Think, On Both Sides Of The Camera Or The Novel: Distraction. I'm Obsessed With: Can I Get This Actress Or My Third Act To Work? I'm Distracted. I'm Interested In That So I Don't Sit Home And Think, "gee, Life Is Meaningless. We're All Going To Die. The Universe Is Pulling Apart At Breakneck Speed."

You Mellow Too Much You Ripen And Rot.

What If Nothing Exists And We're All In Somebody's Dream? Or What's Worse, What If Only That Fat Guy In The Third Row Exists?

Abysmal Vermin That I Am, I Couldn't Of Course Tell Her That It Was Her Incredible Mother That I Wanted To See Again… I Knew Only As I Drove Through The Cold, Night Autumn Air That Somewhere Freud, Sophocles And Eugene O’neill Were Laughing.