There are some stories you can't hear enough. They are the same every time you hear them. But you are not. That's one reliable way of understanding time.

Writing is a hellish task, best snuck up on, whacked on the head, robbed and left for dead.

The world should not be organized to require heroines, and when one is required but fails to appear, we should not judge.

There are some stories you can't hear enough. They are the same every time you hear them. But you are not. That's one reliable way of understanding time.

The thief you must fear the most is not the one who steals mere things.

She's no lady. Her songs are all unbelievably unhappy or lewd. It's called Blues. She sings about sore feet, sexual relations, baked goods, killing your lover, being broke, men called Daddy, women who dress like men, working, praying for rain. Jail and trains. Whiskey and morphine. She tells stories between verses and everyone in the place shouts out how true it all is.

Memory plays tricks. Memory is another word for story, and nothing is more unreliable.