I don't know why I write what I write.

I laugh maniacally, then take a deep breath and touch my chest- expecting a heart to be thumping quickly, impatiently, but there's nothing there, not even a beat.

Not being able to find meaning can be just as powerful as finding meaning.

I think a lot of snowflakes are alike...and I think a lot of people are alike too.

I really believe that readers are smart and sophisticated enough to realize that the author is not the narrator of his novels.

Adjust my dreams for me.

I've been accused of being very vain about my apathy.