The Very Air Had Screams Smeared On

There Is No Murder. We Make Murder, And It Matters Only To Us.

In Making Friends, She Was Wary Of People Who Foster Dependency And Feed On It. She Had Been Involved With A Few--the Blind Attract Them, And They Are The Enemy.

But The Face On The Pillow, Rosy In The Firelight, Is Certainly That Of Clarice Starling, And She Sleeps Deeply, Sweetly, In The Silence Of The Lambs.

He Sees Very Clearly - He Damn Sure Sees Through Me. It's Hard To Accept That Someone Can Understand You Without Wishing You Well. At Starling's Age It Hadn't Happened To Her Much.

I'm Doing One Of Three Things: I'm Writing. I'm Staring Out The Window. Or I'm Writhing On The Floor.