The Job Of The Artist Is To

And Why Had Deb's Last Boyfriend Dumped Her? I Dumped Him. Maybe You Didn't French-kiss Him Enough. I Promise You That Wasn't It. Tell Me How Many Times A Day You Kissed, And I'll Say If It Was Enough. Four Hundred. Not Enough.

The Job Of The Artist Is To Point At Things.

He Breathed Out The Bitter Air That Makes Women Doubt Everything, And I Breathed It In, As I Had Always Done. I Expelled My Dust, The Powder Of Everything I Had Destroyed With Doubt, And He Pulled It Into His Lungs.

The Word God Asks A Question And Then Answers It Before There Is Any Chance To Wonder.

When I Write, I Wear Earplugs. I Don't Want To Be Self-conscious. I Don't Want To Be Thinking About The Fact That I'm Thinking About It. I Just Want To Be In It. It's One Element Of Hypnosis.