My Woody Allen

I began reading the complete prose of Woody Allen yesterday. I've never been a fan before. But it came highly recommended. It's very, very good. Very, very funny. I feel sorry for him that American Apparel tried to screw him over so bad. Just another nail in the coffin really for a company built on lawsuits. 

Excerpts form the journal of Woody Allen:

I believe my consumption has grown worse. Also my asthma. The wheezing comes and goes, and I get dizzy more and more frequently. I have take to violent choking and fainting. My room is damp and I have perpetual chills and palpitations of the heart. I noticed, too, that I am out of napkins. Will it never stop?

Idea for a story: Some beavers take over Carnegie Hall and perform Wozzeck. (Strong theme. What will be the structure?)

Thought: Why does man kill? He kills for food. And not only food: frequently there must be a beverage.