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 began as a mistake.

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

I was their bar freak, they needed me to make themselves feel better. just like, at times, I needed that graveyard.

I have no time for things that have no soul.

It’s nice enough to make a man weep, but I don’t weep, do you?

I seldom know what I'm going to write when I sit down. There isn't much agony and sweat of the human spirit involved in doing it. The writing's easy, it's the living that is sometimes difficult.