There was our father, the heart we knew held all of us. Held us heavily and desperately, the doors of his heart opening and closing with the rapidity of stops on an instrument, the quiet felt closures, the ghostly fingering, practice and practice and then, incredibly, sound and melody and warmth.

It's very weird to succeed at thirty-nine years old and realize that in the midst of your failure, you were slowly building the life that you wanted anyway.

I'm fine with whatever comes my way, and whatever doesn't come my way I'm fine with too. I have a very laissez-faire attitude with the whole thing.

Our only kiss was like an accident- a beautiful gasoline rainbow.

I dont think ignorance is a way that you gain distance on something.

Murder had a blood red door on the other side of which was everything unimaginable to everyone.

How could it be that you could love someone so much and keep it secret from yourself as you woke daily so far from home?