Everything is still falling apart.

When we die, these are the stories still on our lips. The stories we’ll only tell strangers, someplace private in the padded cell of midnight. These important stories, we rehearse them for years in our head but never tell. These stories are ghosts, bringing people back from the dead. Just for a moment. For a visit. Every story is a ghost.

You ever wonder when God's coming back with a lot of barbecue sauce?

Hope is something really tough and tenacious you have to give up. It’s an addiction to break.

I ran. I ran until my muscles burned and my veins pumped battery acid. Then I ran some more.

Reject the basic assumptions of civilization, especially the importance of material possessions.

Where would Jesus be if no one had written the gospels?