With all respects to heaven, I like it here.

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.

Even if you're going to die, you might as well die pretty.

Part of the beauty of fiction is that we come alive in a body that we don't own.

There are moments we return to, now and always. Family is like water - it has a memory of what it once filled, always trying to get back to the original stream.

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

It was a silence that heard itself, awful and beautiful.