All Of My Books Come From Pain.

The Smiths Are Singing And Someone Says "turn That Gay Angst Music Off.

Yes. Yes I Am. I Am A Completely Demented Misogynist.

She Sits Before Me, Sullen But Hopeful, Characterless, About To Dissolve Into Tears. I Squeeze Her Hand Back, Moved, No, Touched By Her Ignorance Of Evil. She Has One More Test To Pass. Do You Own A Briefcase?” I Ask Her, Swallowing.

I Am Gripped By An Existential Panic.

Unless You're The Director On The Movie, Or Putting Up The Money For The Movie, You Really Don't Have A Lot Of Control.