I Read Two Mysteries A Day When

I Could Envision It All To Clearly: Stuart Or Debbie Finding The Dented Door Off Its Hinges, Lying In The Snow. "she Came In, Ravaged The Boy, Stole Plastic Bags, And Ripped Off The Door In Her Escape," The Police Would Say In The Apb. "probably Making Her Way To Bust Her Parents Out Of Jail.

Keep Calm And Carry On. Also, Stay In And Hide Because The Ripper Is Coming.

I'm Keith," He Said, "and You're . . . Clearly Mad, But What's Your Name?

She Was Standing In The Airport Of Copenhagen, Staring At A Doorway, Trying To Figure Out If It Was (a) A Bathroom And (b) What Kind Of Bathroom It Was. The Door Merely Said H. Was She An H? Was H "hers"? It Could Just As Easily Be "his". Or "helicopter Room: Not A Bathroom At All

Sometimes Artist Like To Catch Themselves Looking Out, Let The World See Them For Once. It's A Signature. This One Is A Very Bold One. But This Is Also A Witnessing. We Want To Remember, And We Want To Be Remembered. That's Why We Paint.