There’s no man on this earth can even be assured he’ll have a next day.

People are better inside in your head. When you’re longing for them, they’re perfect.

All talk is lies in a way. Only the doing of a thing can make it true.

That’s the thing about December: it goes by you in a flash. If you just close your eyes, it’s gone. And it’s like you were never there.

Writing fiction is the act of extending empathy to or beyond its natural limits.

The future is a cold mistress. You can give all your life looking to her and trying to catch hold of her but she'll always dance away from your fingertips and laugh back at you from the distance. Them that say they know are liars and thieves.

That time is long gone. But aren't we still the same people?

he waited for the water to carry him down, and fill him and slough his flesh and salt his guilty bones. But the water wouldn't take him.

Some things is easy do, when you have no choice in the world but to do them. Like shiteing into bedpan, in front of a nurse.

I kind of thought actually that Trevor was gone completely mental when he called up here a few weeks ago. Like, why would he not text or email or Facebook? What's with all the reality, I thought. Does he not know he's a million times cooler in virtual form?