Clark comes down as if somehow gentically engineered to interrupt the peace of my morning cigarette and he is all burning and fire; when all I wanted, or needed was smoke. He is, as always, too much: Too many words, too many laughs, too many tears and too many needs. Naturally he needs to bum a cigarette. I want to tell him to buy his own, but his mother just died and I don’t know… I think you just have to give things to people in mourning in the morning. So I do.