Blanche: What day is this? I've been up for 72 hours. I had a breakthrough. I discovered a new form of writing. I will go down in history. First I wrote all day, then I tore it all up, and then that night it came to me, and the words poured forth like liquid from a stream. It was almost a mystical experience. Somebody else was writing this.
Rose: Who?
Blanche: Everyman. This is everyman's work. It's all gold. Just open it anywhere and the magic will touch you. But I'm so tired. I must sleep. And I cannot sleep. I am too tired to sleep. I will never sleep again. I may die from this. What am I gonna do? My God, I'm hallucinating. I see little balls of sunshine in a bag. Does this mean something?
Rose: Those are egg yolks, Blanche.
Blanche: My brain's gone. My body is limp with exhaustion. I suppose all the greats knew this feeling. And the thing is, after all this I've decided not to sell my book. It's too good to sell. They can publish it after I'm dead, like Vincent van Gogh.
Dorothy: Van Gogh was a painter, Blanche.
Blanche: Whatever. It's all the same thing. We're all artists. We're all misunderstood. He cut off his hair. Maybe I'll cut off mine.
Dorothy: He cut off his ear.
Blanche: I have too many earrings.