The streets were full of insane & dull people. Most of them lived in nice houses and didn't seem to work, and you wondered how they did it.

They laughed. Things were funny. They weren't afraid to care. There was no sense to life, to the structure of things.

We are here to laugh at the odds.

It’s never quite right, all the things we are taught, all the loves we chase, all the deaths we die, all the lives we live.

It is possible to be truly mad and to still exist upon scraps of life.

They, all of them, seemed to put literary form in front of the actuality and living of life itself.

I read my books at night, like that, under the quilt with the overheated reading lamp. Reading all those good lines while suffocating. It was magic.