FireVaney's

Only now, I pass by all these gifts perfect for the would-be girlfriend.

After a certain lapse in our correspondence—of which I am mostly to blame—he wrote, “What are you doing?” And I wrote back, “Gaining weight.” Which is true.

And then there’s the recurrent nightmare about failing light switches…

BULLSHIT. * * what isn't ?

The packaging makes it Art .

HER : I love you. HIM : (Nods. Pause.) Finish the thought. HER : I did. HIM : You didn’t. HER : I did. That was all. I love you — HIM : Like a brother — Like. A. Brother.

All that is “Art” and all that is “Entertainment” is a manipulation of the senses. Thus, to be amused is to be fooled at your own risk.

A: This is just pissing the wall. B: And? A: And? It’s all we ever do. B: Yes. We’re accomplished. A: Accomplished? B: At something. A: At pissing the wall. B: That’s right. What's more? We’ve great aim. A: Yes. Mentally and physically. B: Yes.

Life isn’t worth living unless you are sharing it; even if you are, at the very least, sharing it with a self-acknowledged fantasy.

Hold my breath. Catch my breath.

Writing is dwelling, but better than simply dwelling. Writing is the purging of the plaguing thought. Although the sickness—a virus, if you will, of conscious and perhaps unconscious and certainly continuous Agony —can never be fully expelled from the system. Or maybe I just need drugs.

The aim (now) is to write plays no one, in their right mind, would produce; to write short stories and novels no one, in their right mind, would publish. This way, the pressure’s off. And all that’s left is the “fun.”

“…to be an artist is to fail, as no other dare fail, that failure is his world and the shrink from it desertion, art and craft, good housekeeping.” —Samuel Beckett