Time seems to me a drift, a shifting of sand. And my mind is shifting with it. I am wearing away.

A writer of books has to admit that film is the enemy, and that in my case I have been sleeping with the enemy.

The images of things are not the things in themselves.

Images break with a small ping, their destruction is as wonderful as their being, they are essentially instruments of torture exploding through the individual's calloused capacity to feel undifferentiated emotions full of longing and dissatisfaction and monumentality.

Uncharged with invisible meaning, the visible is nothing, mere clay; and without visible circumstance, a territory, to connect to, our spirit is shapeless, nameless, and undefined.

Someone dying asks if there is life after death. Yes, comes the answer, only not yours.

I've known several cases of writers who decide to write about something and they research the hell out of it and when they're ready to write, they can't move because they are so burdened. I start writing. Whatever I need somehow comes to hand.