This is not my life. These are not my cobwebs. This is not the darkness I was designed for.

The city was bigger than its buildings, bigger than its inhabitants too. It had its own nuances. It accepted whatever came its way, the crime and the violence and the little shocks of good that crawled out from underneath the everyday.

Good days, they come around the oddest corners.

Words are good for saying what things are, but sometimes they don't function for what things aren't.

She was tired of everyone wanting to go to heaven, nobody wanting to die. The only thing worth grieving over, she said, was that sometimes there was more beauty in this life than the world could bear.

A book is completed only when it is finished by a reader.

Long ago, long ago. The simple things come back to us. They rest for a moment by our ribcages then suddenly reach in and twist our hearts a notch backward.