There is no answer. It's okay. But even if it wasn't okay, what am I supposed to do?

You're...writing for other writers to an extent-the dead writers whose work you admire, as well as the living writers you like to read.

This is awful. I don't know what's going to happen to me or to anyone else in the world.

Remember Haydn's 104 symphonies. Not all of them were great. But there were 104 of them.

That's all we have, finally, the words, and they had better be the right ones.

Then I said something. I said, Suppose, just suppose, nothing had ever happened. Suppose this was for the first time. Just suppose. It doesn't hurt to suppose. Say none of the other had ever happened. You know what I mean? Then what? I said.

I am a cigarette with a body attached to it