We’d torn open our chests and shown our cowardly hearts, and you can never stay friends after something like that

I really enjoy writing novels. Its like the ocean. You can just build a boat and take off.

You're under pressure when you produce facts. You're working with facts in journalism, but you're under all kinds of formal constraints; there are expectations.

Talk into my bullet hole. Tell me I'm fine.

After the film it was raining, a light steady rain. Ruthless neon on the wet streets like busted candy.

He got right down in the dark between heartbeats, and rested there. And then he saw that another one wasn't going to come. That's it. That's the last. He looked at the dark. I would like to take this opportunity, he said, to pray for another human being.

There were many moments in the Vine like that one--where you might think today was yesterday, and yesterday was tomorrow, and so on. Because we all believed we were tragic, and we drank. We had that helpless, destined feeling. We would die with handcuffs on. We would be put a stop to, and it wouldn't be our fault. So we imagined. And yet we were always being found innocent for ridiculous reasons.