If you love something set it free, but don't be surprised if it comes back with herpes.

Now is the autumn of our ennui.

You can't base your life on the past or the present. You have to tell me about your future.

When a regular person gets sick, they take an aspirin. When a writer gets sick, they take notes.

It's creepy, but here we are, the Pilgrims, the crackpots of our time, trying to establish our own alternate reality. To build a world out of rocks and chaos. What it's going to be, I don't know. Even after all that rushing around, where we've ended up is the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night. And maybe knowing isn't the point. Where we're standing right now, in the ruins in the dark, what we build could be anything.

The things you used to own, now they own you.

If you take my stuff apart, you'll find my choruses of repetitions are picked up almost verbatim from Kurt Vonnegut, and my distanced fracture quality is all from Amy Hempel, who's probably my favourite writer.