Love Is Art, Not Truth. It’s Like

If You're Suicidal, And You Don't Actually Kill Yourself, You Become Known As 'wry.

Blasts From The Past Were Like The Rooms One Entered And Re-entered In Dreams: They Would Not Stay Nailed Down. When You Returned To Them, They Had Changed - They Suddenly Had More Space Or A Tilt Or A Door That Had Not Been There Before. New People Were Milling Around, The Floors Undulated, And The Sun Shone Newly, Strangely In The Windows, Or Through The Now Blasted-open Ceiling, Or Else It Shone Not At All, As If Having Fled The Sky.

People Will Do Anything, Anything, For A Really Nice Laugh.

I Love Plays. Even Bad Ones. I Like The Fact That Actual Live, Breathing People Are Standing Before You In Tense Situations That You Are Not Personally Responsible For.

One Had To Build Shelters. One Had To Make Pockets And Live Inside Them.