Perhaps I’ve been rushing my whole entire life, jumping into things headfirst without thinking them through. Running through the days without noticing the minutes.

I don't want to be one of those easily forgotten people, so important at the time, so special, so influential, and so treasured, yet years later just a vague face and a distant memory.

I write human stories. I write about people. Not as a product of their environment. But from the stance that everybody is made of the same thing.

Sometimes you have to give yourself to somebody in order to see who you are. Sometimes you have to unravel things to get to the core

Every single ordinary person has an extraordinary story.

There is absolutely nothing wrong with returning to the house you grew up in every now and again. It's good for the soul.

You never forget about things you've done that you know you shouldn't have done. They hang around your mind, linger like a thief casing a joint for a future job. You see them there, dramatically lurking nearby in striped monochrome, leaping behind postboxes as soon as your head whips around to confront them. Or it's a familiar face in a crowd that you glimpse but then lose sight of. An annoying Where's Wally? forever locked away and hidden in every thought in your conscience. The bad thing that you did, always there to let you know.