Adjust My Dreams For Me.

I Think My Sensibility Is Very Literary; All My Books Were Built As Books, And I Wasn't Thinking About Them Being Movies.

You Do Not Write A Novel For Praise, Or Thinking Of Your Audience. You Write For Yourself; You Work Out Between You And Your Pen The Things That Intrigue You

There Are No More Barriers To Cross. All I Have In Common With The Uncontrollable And The Insane, The Vicious And The Evil, All The Mayhem I Have Caused And My Utter Indifference Toward It I Have Now Surpassed. My Pain Is Constant And Sharp And I Do Not Hope For A Better World For Anyone, In Fact I Want My Pain To Be Inflicted On Others. I Want No One To Escape, But Even After Admitting This There Is No Catharsis, My Punishment Continues To Elude Me And I Gain No Deeper Knowledge Of Myself; No New Knowledge Can Be Extracted From My Telling. This Confession Has Meant Nothing.

I Like To Dissect Girls. Did You Know I'm Utterly Insane?

What Keeps Me Interested--and It Always Does--is How Can She Be A Bad Actress On Film But A Good One In Reality?