I Want To Confess As Best I

I Make All My Decisions On Intuition. But Then, I Must Know Why I Made That Decision. I Throw A Spear Into The Darkness. That Is Intuition. Then I Must Send An Army Into The Darkness To Find The Spear. That Is Intellect.

I Have A Lot Of Tics And Phobias. I Hate To Travel. I Hate To Go To Festivals. I Hate It When Somebody Gets Close Behind Me. I'm Scared Of The Darkness. I Hate Open Doors.

Occasionally I Sense An Insane Wail Deep Down In The Pit, The Echo Alone Reaching Me, Striking Without Warning, A Child Weeping Uninhibitedly, Imprisoned Forever.

No Other Art-medium–neither Painting Nor Poetry–can Communicate The Specific Quality Of The Dream As Well As The Film Can. When The Lights Go Down In The Cinema And This White Shining Point Opens Up For Us, Our Gaze Stops Flitting Hither And Thither, Settles And Becomes Quite Steady. We Just Sit There, Letting The Images Flow Out Over Us. Our Will Ceases To Function. We Lose Our Ability To Sort Things Out And Fix Them In Their Proper Places. We're Drawn Into A Course Of Events–we're Participants In A Dream. And Manufacturing Dreams, That's A Juicy Business.

I Think I Have Made Just One Picture That I Really Like.