Here are the shadows left behind by a thousand moments, a thousand moods, of needs traced here on the wall by men who are gone. Here is the record of their being here.

To see how boring you really are, write a book about soap and cults, and the profits you make will be your only means of subsistence.

Ever since college, I make friends. They get married. I lose friends.

I'm not sure what we're running from. Nobody. Or the future. Fate. Growing up. Getting old. Picking up the pieces. As if running we won't have to get on with our lives.

We hear the ambient noise of children singing. We hear lions and tigers roar. Hyenas laugh. Some jungle bird or howler monkey declares its existence, screeching a maniac's gibberish. Our entire world, always doing battle against the silence and obscurity of death.

I spend most of my life just listening to people.

People fall so in love with their pain, they can’t leave it behind. The same as the stories they tell. We trap ourselves.