I look for the words, Professor. I look for the words because I believe that the words is the way to your heart.

When I came into your life your life was over. It had a beginning, a middle, and an end. This is the end. You can say that things could have turned out differently. That they could have been some other way. But what does that mean? They are not some other way. They are this way.

The soft black talc blew through the streets like squid ink uncoiling along a sea floor and the cold crept down and the dark came early and the scavengers passing down the steep canyons with their torches trod silky holes in the drifted ash that closed behind them silently as eyes.

Usually, you don't know where a book comes from ... it's just there, some kind of an itch that you can't quite scratch.

This country will kill you in a heartbeat and still people love it.

Maybe. Anyway, some men get what they want. No man. Or perhaps only briefly so as to lose it. Or perhaps only to prove to the dreamer that the world of his longing made real is no longer that world at all.

Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it.