Adjust My Dreams For Me.

I Like The Idea Of A Writer Being Haunted By His Own Creation, Especially If The Writer Resents The Way The Character Defines Him.

What Do You Do?' She Asks, Holding Out The Vest. 'what Do You Do?' 'what Do You Do?' She Asks, Her Voice Shaking. 'don't Ask Me, Please. Okay, Clay?' 'why Not?' She Sits On The Mattress After I Get Up. Muriel Screams. 'because... I Don't Know,' She Sighs. I Look At Her And Don't Feel Anything And Walk Out With My Vest.

A Curtain Of Stars, Miles Of Them, Are Scattered, Glowing, Across The Sky And Their Multitude Humbles Me, Which I Have A Hard Time Tolerating. She Shrugs And Nods After I Say Something About Forms Of Anxiety. It's As If Her Mind Is Having A Hard Time Communicating With Her Mouth, As If She Is Searching For A Rational Analysis Of Who I Am, Which Is, Of Course, An Impossibility: There... Is... No... Key.

'do You Know What Ed Gein Said About Women?' [...] '"when I See A Pretty Girl Walking Down The Street I Think Two Things. One Part Of Me Wants To Take Her Out And Talk To Her And Be Real Nice And Sweet And Treat Her Right."' I Stop Finish My J&b In One Swallow. 'what Does The Other Part Of Him Think?' Hamlin Asks Tentatively. 'what Her Head Would Look Like On A Stick...'

I Convinced Myself I Hadn't Seen Anything, ... I Had Done This Many Times Before ... I Was Adept At Erasing Reality.