... but it is attitude, not years, that condemns one to the ranks of the Undead, or else proffers salvation. In the domain of the young there dwells many an Undead soul. They rush about so, their inner putrefaction is concealed for a few decades, that is all.

She has to lose her pre-Copernican view of a universe revolving around herself.

I added 'writers' to my list of people not to trust. They make everything up.

Write something every single day, even if it's just three lines. And it doesn't matter if it's any good - just write something every day.

Trees're always a relief, after people.

I understand now that boundaries between noise and sound are conventions. All boundaries are conventions, waiting to be transcended. One may transcend any convention if only one can first conceive of doing so.

Dreams are all I have ever truly owned.