David On David. That's Mr. Lowery To You.

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.