How could you cleanse yourself if you couldn’t forget?

I look back on my 20s. It's supposed to be the prime of your life, the most vital, the most beautiful. But you're making your critical decisions and sometimes your most critical mistakes.

She perched on her windowsill, gazing at the lurid sun soaking into the Caldera, trying to appreciate it even though she couldn’t have it. Why did she always feel she had to do something in the face of beauty?

Parents were the only ones obligated to love you; from the rest of the world you had to earn it.

Everyone is fragile. Everything beautiful is fragile

To write a story, I think you really have to open yourself up to the world.

Gestating characters feels something like the mental equivalent of gestating a baby. In both cases, to create them you lose yourself. Or at least you reshape yourself to encompass them.