My books are always about someone obtaining a power to replace the previous sort of power that they held.

Deliver me from Swedish furniture. Deliver me from clever art. And the phone rang and Tyler answered. "If you don't know what you want," the doorman said, "you end up with a lot you don't." May I never be complete. May I never be content. May I never be perfect. Deliver me, Tyler, from being perfect and complete.

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.

What I mean is sometimes, for an artist, chronic pain can be a gift.

If anything I try to write something that would be more difficult to film. I tend to see film as competition and would like instead to do what books do best.

There's worse that people can steal from you than money.

What if reality is nothing but some disease?