[An excerpt from SYNECDOCHE, NEW YORK (2008) written by Charlie Kaufman:]
Dear diary, I’m afraid I’m gravely ill. It is perhaps times like these that one reflects on things past. An article of clothing from when I was young . . . a green jacket . . . a walk with my father . . . a game we once played: Pretend we’re fairies, and we fight each other. And I say, “Stop hitting me or I’ll die.” And you hit me again, and I say: “Now I have to die.” And you say, “But I’ll miss you.” And I say, “I have to. And you’ll have to wait a million years to see me again. And I’ll be put in a box and all I’ll need is a tiny glass of water and lots of tiny pieces of pizza. And the box will have wings like an airplane.” And you ask, “Where will it take you?” “Home,” I say.