This Was The Tricky Bit. The Really

Death And Disaster Are At Our Shoulders Every Second Of Our Lives, Trying To Get At Us. Missing, A Lot Of The Time. A Lot Of Miles On The Motorway Without A Front Wheel Blow-out. A Lot Of Viruses That Slither Through Our Bodies Without Snagging. A Lot Of Pianos That Fall A Minute After We've Passed. Or A Month, It Makes No Difference. So Unless We're Going To Get Down On Our Knees And Give Thanks Every Time Disaster Misses, It Makes No Sense To Moan When It Strikes.

I Would Cling To Unhappiness Because It Was A Known, Familiar State. When I Was Happier, It Was Because I Knew I Was On My Way Back To Misery. I've Never Been Convinced That Happiness Is The Object Of The Game. I'm Wary Of Happiness.

I Suppose Actors Crave Attention Of Some Kind Or They Have Suffered Some Form Of Arrested Development And Are Still Living In A Sort Of Child's Fantasy Existence At Some Level In Their Psyche.

Love Is A Word. A Sound. Its Association With A Particular Feeling Is Arbitrary, Unmeasurable, And Ultimately Meaningless

Perseverance Does Not Equal Worthiness. Next Time You Want To Get My Attention, Wear Something Fun. Low-riding Jeans Are Hot.