In the middle of L.A.'s sunny non-winter, I need to sit in a dark closet to feel right.

I know. So, I was angry with you. I didn't know why. I was angry with the world. I did know why. I hated all my therapists for being useless. I was this little ball of self-destructive fury, and none of them could do anything but tell me that I was a little ball of self-destructive fury. [...] I knew I was angry. Tell me what to do with that anger, please.

You're just trying on different identities, like everyone in those Shakespeare plays. And the people we pretend at, they're already in us. That's why we pretend them in the first place.

Sleep would be so welcome. A warm blanket of black to erase everything else. Sleep without dreams.

I don’t discount a magical hand of fate. I am an actor, after all, and a Shakespearian, no less. But it can’t be the ruling force of your life. You have to be the driver.

It's funny the things you think you're scared of until they're upon you, and then you're not.

It feels like the city is telling secrets down here, privy only to those who think to listen.