Sandwich Outdoors Isn’t A Sandwich Anymore. Tastes

He Raged For Hours. And The Skeleton, Ever The Frail And Solelmn Philosopher, Hung Quietly Inside, Saying Not A Word, Suspended Like A Delicate Insect Within A Chrysalis, Waiting And Waiting.

Venice Was And Is Full Of Lost Places Where People Put Up For Sale The Last Worn Bits Of Their Souls, Hoping No One Will Buy.

I Don't Have A Computer. A Computer's A Typewriter. I Already Have A Typewriter.

Self-consciousness Is The Enemy Of All Art, Be It Acting, Writing, Painting, Or Living Itself, Which Is The Greatest Art Of All.

Sometimes I Think I Understand Everything. Then I Regain Consciousness