Just that, is one of those uncommon moments, those times when you don't wish for something else, for even one thing to be different; when you have no other needs or worries, where your insides are calm, and everything you were ever restless about, anything that had ever given you angst, is quieted to stillness. No steel ball in your chest, no breathless fear. No blue numbness of nearly passing out, no nagging doubts of the backstage mind. All of that, forgotten. It is just rightness, so rare.

If time heals all wounds, and a book can hold a person's entire life, then you can speed up the process with a pulp time warp.

Blessed books—they’re a place to be alone, and no one else can come in.

So I put up with bad behavior in the name of loving the way I thought you were supposed to love.

People are secretive when they have secrets.

Sometimes that´s all you need…, to know it´s not broken. To know you’re still whole and that you’ll heal.

Anyway, madness and genius. They're the disturbed pals of the human condition. The Bonnie and Clyde, the Thelma and Louise, the baking soda and vinegar. Insanity just walks alongside the brilliant like some creepy, insistent shadow.