While at The Strand seeking to reacquaint myself with Virginia Woolf, a woman walked past me with an armful of books and muttered: "Stay right there, I need to take your picture."
I ran six miles in Central Park and then slept for as many hours and dreamed of phone calls.
I had the most surreal and memorable experience of my filmmaking career on Sunday, but I can't talk about it.
I peeled an orange and it made my fingers smell like Christmas.
I told a strange lie that I can't quite figure out.
There's something in the air.