I'm Quite Good At Not Writing.

Most Of Humanity Gets By Without Reading Novels Or Poetry, And No One Would Deny The Richness Of Their Thoughts.

He Would Work Through The Night And Sleep Until Lunch. There Wasn't Really Much Else To Do. Make Something, And Die.

And She Did Not Miss His Presence So Much As His Voice On The Phone. Even Being Lied To Constantly, Though Hardly Like Love, Was Sustained Attention; He Must Care About Her To Fabricate So Elaborately And Over Such A Long Stretch Of Time. His Deceit Was A Form Of Tribute To The Importance Of Their Marriage.

I Read In Announcements Of Deaths 'peacefully In His Sleep' And I Wonder How Many Of Those Are True. Maybe They Are Just Conventional. I Hope They Are True Whenever I Read It Of Someone. [but] I Would Rather Be Awake. Peacefully Awake, Brim Full Of Some Calming Drug That Was Seeing Me Out Of The Door, Having Said My Farewells.

Novels Without Female Characters Were A Lifeless Desert.