It’s difficult to explain, but I just somehow feel that I never really *have* lived; that I never really will live–exist or whatever–in the sense that other people do. It drives me crazy. I was terribly aware of it all those nights waiting for you in the Ritz bar looking around at what seemed to be real grown-up lives. I just find everybody else’s life surrounded by plate glass. I mean I’d like to break through it just once and actually touch one.
