If people behaved in the same way nations do they would all be put in straitjackets.

I talk out the lines as I write them.

We all live in a house on fire, no fire department to call; no way out, just the upstairs window to look out of while the fire burns the house down with us trapped, locked in it.

Like a cat on a hot tin roof.

What is the victory of a cat on a hot tin roof? - I wish I knew... Just staying on it, I guess, as long as she can.

Something in me will save me from utter ruin no matter what comes.

Why is it so damn hard for people to talk?