Every Night I Cut Out

I See The Poem Or The Novel Ending With An Open Door.

All I Desired Was To Walk Upon Such An Earth That Had No Maps.

Once I've Discovered The Story, I Might Restructure It, Maybe Move Things Around, Set Up A Clue That Something Is Going To Happen Later, But That Happens Much Later In An Editorial Capacity.

When Someone Speaks He Looks At A Mouth, Not Eyes And Their Colors, Which, It Seems To Him, Will Always Alter Depending On The Light Of A Room, The Minute Of The Day. Mouths Reveal Insecurity Or Smugness Or Any Other Point On The Spectrum Of Character. For Him They Are The Most Intricate Aspect Of Faces. He's Never Sure What An Eye Reveals. But He Can Read How Mouths Darken Into Callousness, Suggest Tenderness. One Can Often Misjudge An Eye From Its Reaction To A Simple Beam Of Sunlight.

If You Look At Japanese Film, It Is Made Up Of Collage Or Bricolage, It Is Made Up Of Lists, And Suddenly When You Stand Back From The Lists You Begin To See The Pattern Of A Life.