There's Something Very Strange About Associating Me

That We Have Some History Together That Hasn’t Happened Yet.

What I Suddenly Understand My Job Is To Make People Uncomfortable. + I Will Do It All My Life. ---> My Mother, Sasha Blake, Is My First Victim.

He Looks Tired, Like Someone Walked On His Skin And Left Footprints.

But I Always Need To Identify With A Character To Write About Him Or Her - And By "identify," I Mean See The World Through That Person's Eyes And Have A Strong Sense Of The Inner Logic Of Their Acts And Decisions, Wacky Or Wrongheaded Though They Might Be. In That Sense, I Think There's Some Of Me In All Of Them.

We Stand There, Quiet. My Questions All Seem Wrong: How Did You Get So Old? Was It All At Once, In A Day, Or Did You Peter Out Bit By Bit? When Did You Stop Having Parties? Did Everyone Else Get Old Too, Or Was It Just You? Are Other People Still Here, Hiding In The Palm Trees Or Holding Their Breath Underwater? When Did You Last Swim Your Laps? Do Your Bones Hurt? Did You Know This Was Coming And Hide That You Knew, Or Did It Ambush You From Behind?