I feel overestimated.
My mind gets into a verbal mode.
The unpredictable and the predetermined unfold together to make everything the way it is.
...reality, the name we give to the common experience.
I don't keep a diary and I throw away nearly all the paper I might have kept. I don't keep an archive. There's something worrying about my make-up that I try to leave no trace of myself apart from my plays.
All your life you live so close to truth, it becomes a permanent blur in the corner of your eye, and when something nudges it into outline it is like being ambushed by a grotesque.