I'm bored with knitting. I've taken up arson.

Is it sad to fancy David Tennant when you're dead?

I'm at a loss because I am in love with a man who is standing before me with no memories of me at all. (Time Traveler's Wife)

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.

Every minute of his life since then has been marked by her absence, every action has lacked dimension because she is not there to measure against. And when I was young I didn't understand, but now, I know, how absence can be present, like a damaged nerve, like a dark bird.

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

I'm living under water. Everything seems slow and far away. I know there's a world up there, a sunlit quick world where time runs like dry sand through an hourglass, but down here, where I am, air and sound and time and feeling are thick and dense.