…she smiles in an exhausted but warm sort of way, as though she is a brilliant sun in some other galaxy

Chaos is more freedom; in fact, total freedom. But no meaning.

Sleep is my lover now, my forgetting, my opiate, my oblivion.

I place my hands over her ears and tip her head back, and kiss her, and try to put my heart into hers, for safekeeping, in case I lose it again.

He said something interesting: he said that he thinks there is only free will when you are in time, in the present. He says in the past we can only do what we did, and we can only be there if we were there.

The compelling thing about making art - or making anything, I suppose - is the moment when the vaporous, insubstantial idea becomes a solid there, a thing, a substance in a world of substances.

Chaos is more freedom; in fact, total freedom. But no meaning. I want to be free to act, and I also want my actions to mean something.