they say that nothing is wasted: either that or it al is

I'm too careless. I don't put out enough effort. I'm tired.

It's not the large things that send a man to the madhouse... no, it's the continuing series of small tragedies... not the death of his love but the shoelace that snaps with no time left.

there was something about that city, though it didn't let me feel guilty that I had no feeling for the things so many others needed. it let me alone.

the tired sunsets and the tired people - it takes a lifetime to die and no time at all.

Oh, I don’t mean you’re handsome, not the way people think of handsome. Your face seems kind. But your eyes - they’re beautiful. They’re wild, crazy, like some animal peering out of a forest on fire.

writers are desperate people and when they stop being desperate they stop being writers.