There is nothing to me but you. I know it’s pathetic but, oh darling, it’s true.

All that is required of you is an open mind and a little patience.

Violence can read like poetry. You just have to describe the act as if you’re in love with the way your characters bleed.

Where do they go, these dreams of mine? Do they live? Do they die? Do they fall? Do they fly?

If my life was pulled into the pages of a book, there would be coffee stains and wrinkles along the lines of that narrative. Because all I can wish is that the book of my life would be well read and well loved. Living within words and the sound of writing.

My sister lived in the moment. She said she would love the summer only when it came and warmed her. But I lived and still live in the future. Where it’s warm when it’s cold. Where dreams are not yet reality. Where the sad people are happy. The only problem with living in the future is that everyone has died, including yourself. So your plans are fiction and your predictions are fantasy. Living in the future is pure fantasy. I think that’s why I love it so dearly.