The lucky ones are just born dead.

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.

If I could wake up in a different place, at a different time, could I wake up as a different person?

It’s weird to think the place where we’re standing will only be a point in the sky.

I write because it's a way of presenting something without having to be there.

People will listen to you only when they know you're dying, otherwise they're just waiting for their turn to talk.

Everyone thinks their whole life should be at least as much fun as masturbation.