My Earliest Memory Is Aged Three, Seeing

You've Got The People You Know, Which Are Problematic. Always. They're Rich But They're Also Real People Living Their Lives Alongside You. Then You've Got The People That You Make-up Completely, Who Are Often Missing A Dimension If They Don't Have Some Reference To Real People. So Strangers Exist In This In-between Space, Where In Not Knowing Them, You Are Creating A Fiction For Them, Even In Passing, But At The Same Time, There They Are, With Their Actual Bodies And Their Actual Clothes. It's Totally Enticing.

I'm Interested In What The Virtues Of All Those Things Are, Especially For The Kind Of Person Who's Made Their Own World That Revolves Around Them, Like Writers Do. It Seems Especially Precious.

That's The Artist's Job, Really: Continually Setting Yourself Free, And Giving Yourself New Options And New Ways Of Thinking About Things.

There's All Different Kinds Of People, But I Don't Think It's That Unusual That Once You Get Like A Little Power, You Get To Do Your Weird Thing Even More.

Was She Terrifyingly Beautiful? Was She So Ignorant She Didn't Deserve The Truth? Was She Also A Liar And Thus It Was Something They Did Together? I Don't Believe In Psychology; Which Says Everything You Do Is Because Of Yourself. That Is So Untrue. We Are Social Animals, And Everything We Do Is Because Of Other People, Because We Love Them, Or Because We Don't.