Character: Cecilia Brady

Dark eyes saw right through me; I tried to imagine how he would look, had he to love. The look was soft, aloof, sometimes a bit of scolding - and always out of reach. Not the fault of those eyes, they opened so much. Their owner when the case easily included in the role of "regular guy", although he didn't manage to mingle with the crowd. However, he was able to remain silent, and to go into the shadows, and listen. From my seat (always thought that with the height, although his height he was small) he looked over the many lives his world like a proud young shepherd, do not distinguish day and night. He was born sleepless, without the ability and desire to relax.

For such as he, immediately went to any, without having to entice her or not.

Writers - strictly speaking, not the people. And if you run into more or less valuable, then it breeds from a lot of different people, desperately pretending to be one person. It's like actors: they are so touching, trying not to look in mirrors that even tilt your head and inevitably meet eyes with his own reflection in the chandelier.

When you are rude - the purpose not your in the same interlocutors.

Hollywood is not very favor strangers, if they have a sign on my head saying that their hatchet buried deep in a secure place and will not collapse on our heads, even accidentally, in other words, if they are not celebrities. And even then they better keep on the alert.

Listen to you - it is immediately clear: we are on the way to Hollywood. There's always behind the times.

The actress looked so intently out the window that the flight attendant was afraid, does not ponder whether to jump. However, the actress, as it turned out, the Scarecrow is not poverty, but only a revolution.

You, like me, to accept Hollywood as it is; you can dismiss it with the contempt we had for all that they are unable to accommodate. I understand it is also possible - but vaguely and only fragments.

The writer is less than a human being. Or, if he is talented, it's a bunch of disparate individuals, despite their attempts to merge into one. Here I consider the actors: they are so touching, trying not to look in the mirror, directly away from the mirror and caught his reflection in the Nickel candlesticks.

I'm at dawn then, five years ago, was a little ruffled, probably pale; but in his youth, when living the illusion that the adventures of a bad end does not happen, just had to take a bath and change, and again charged for a long time.

Its location in the suburbs, with its gloomy silence is akin to airports, in my opinion, one of the post stations of the era of the stagecoach. Our red-brick stations were built right into the towns, and got away with trains there is only the residents of the backwoods. Airports in history like oases, like the stops on the great caravan routes.