We Have Lost The Art Of Public

Imagine That You Are Dying. If You Had A Terminal Disease Would You ­finish This Book? Why Not? The Thing That Annoys This 10-weeks-to-live Self Is The Thing That Is Wrong With The Book. So Change It. Stop Arguing With Yourself. Change It. See? Easy. And No One Had To Die.

There Are Little Thoughts In Your Head That Can Grow Until They Eat Your Entire Mind. Just Tiny Little Thoughts--they Are Like A Cancer, There Is No Telling What Triggers The Spread, Or Who Will Be Struck, And Why Some Get It And Others Are Spared.

I Have No Place Left To Live But In My Own Heart.

I Love The Characters Not Knowing Everything And The Reader Knowing More Than Them. There's More Mischief In That And More Room For Seriousness, Too.

Here We Go Again. Always A Few Drinks, But Sometimes Even Sober, We Play The Unhappiness Game; Endlessly Round And Round. Ding Dong. Tighter And Tighter. On And On. Push Me Pull You. Come Here And I'll Tell You How Much I Hate You. Hang On A Minute While I Leave You. All The While We Know We Are Missing The Point, Whatever The Point Used To Be.