Anna despises two classes of people: first, those who own their own homes and have cars and families, and second, everybody else. Constantly she is on the verge of exploding. With rage. A pool of pure red. The pool is filled with speechlessness that talks away at her nonstop.

Seek and you shall find the repulsive things you secretly hope to find.

Art and order, the relatives that refuse to relate.

My plays are made up of long monologues, which is similar to prose working with the language

Vice is basically the love of failure.

Love points the way. Desire is its ignorant advisor.

Sunday, the day for the language of leisure.