Forgive me, O Heavenly Father, according to the multitude of Thy mercies. I have lusted in my heart to break a man's skull and scatter the stench of his brains across several people's back yards.

Perhaps growing up meant we put our knives away and feigned ignorance of the damage.

I stir in bed and the memories rise out of me like a buzz of flies from a carcass. I crave to be rid of them.

You can curse the dead or pray for them, but don't expect them to do a thing for you. They're far too interested in watching us, to see what in heaven's name we will do next.

Nonfiction requires enormous discipline. You construct the terms of your story, and then you stick to them.

Science doesn't tell us what we should do. It only tells us what is.

What keeps you going isn't some fine destination but just the road you're on, and the fact that you know how to drive. You keep your eyes open, you see this damned-to-hell world you got born into, and you ask yourself, 'What life can I live that will let me breathe in & out and love somebody or something and not run off screaming into the woods?