There's a part of me that thinks perhaps we go on existing in a place even after we've left it.

Ultimately, you can only ever write what you know. It's logically and philosophically impossible to write what you don't know.

He realized that he had thought only about the first step, never imagined the last.

We seldom know what we're hearing when we hear something for the first time, but one thing is certain: we hear it as we will never hear it again. We return to the moment to experience it, I suppose, but we can never really find it, only its memory, the faintest imprint of what really was, what it meant.

We have to listen to other people's stories. That's the thing. And that's the only way that we eventually get to know ourselves.

Good days, they come around the oddest corners.

The stars looked like nail heads in the sky--pull a few of them out and the darkness would fall.