The Novel Wins By Points, The Short

The Best Literature Is Always A Take [in The Musical Sense]; There Is An Implicit Risk In Its Execution, A Margin Of Danger That Is The Pleasure Of The Flight, Of The Love, Carrying With It A Tangible Loss But Also A Total Engagement That, On Another Level, Lends The Theater Its Unparalleled Imperfection Faced With The Perfection Of Film. I Don’t Want To Write Anything But Takes.

Memory Weaves And Traps Us At The Same Time According To A Scheme In Which We Do Not Participate: We Should Never Speak Of Our Memory, For It Is Anything But Ours; It Works On Its Own Terms, It Assists Us While Deceiving Us Or Perhaps Deceives Up To Assist Us.

Memory Is A Mirror That Scandalously Lies.

Only By Living Absurdly Is It Possible To Break Out Of This Infinite Absurdity.

As If You Could Pick In Love, As If It Were Not A Lightning Bolt That Splits Your Bones And Leaves You Staked Out In The Middle Of The Courtyard. (...) You Don't Pick Out The Rain That Soaks You To The Skin When You Come Out Of A Concert.