I do my best work if I think about what it is I have to offer.

a meaningless phrase repeated again and again begins to resemble truth.

Now, see, that's why you want Internet friends. You can find people just exactly like you. Screw your neighbors and your family, too messy...the trouble is, once you filter out everybody that doesn't agree with you, all that's left is maybe this one retired surfer guy living in Idaho.

You think you're the foreigner here, and I'm the American, and I just look the other way while the President or somebody sends down this and that . . . to torture people with. But nobody asked my permission, okay? Sometimes I feel like I'm a foreigner, too.

Given my own circumstances, I find that anything can turn out to belong nearly anywhere.

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.

My morning begins with trying not to get up before the sun rises. But when I do, it's because my head is too full of words, and I just need to get to my desk and start dumping them into a file. I always wake with sentences pouring into my head.