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

The worst part of writing fiction is the fear of wasting your life behind a keyboard. The idea that, dying, you'll realize you only lived on paper. Your only adventures were make-believe, and while the world fought and kissed, you sat in some dark room masturbating and making money.

Give me lust, baby. Flash. Give me malice. Flash. Give me detached existentialist ennui. Flash. Give me rampant intellectualism as a coping mechanism. Flash.

What we call chaos is just patterns we haven’t recognized. What we call random is just patterns we can't decipher.

With every lecture, you’re forced to look again at every choice you’ve made over the lesson-by-lesson chain of your entire life. And after all these years, you see how little you have to work with, how limited your life and education have been. How scant was your courage and curiosity. Not to mention your expectations.

There are the most fantastic, beautiful things and people out there. It’s up to you to find them.

After you find out all the things that can go wrong, your life becomes less about living and more about waiting.