I Think We've All Lost Some Kind

Writing Fiction Is An Act Of Imagination And Fantasizing, And It's Not Relating In Prose What You've Been Doing For The Last Two Or Three Years.

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.

What Else Is There To Do In College Except Drink Beer Or Slit One's Wrists?

What Keeps Me Interested--and It Always Does--is How Can She Be A Bad Actress On Film But A Good One In Reality?