I don't consider myself paranoid at all. I think I see things exactly as they are.
The more things I threw away, the more I found.
All plots tend to move deathward. This is the nature of plots.
Explain me to myself, you’ll make me choke on my lunch. Feel sympathy for me, I’ll puke monkey blood on your understated shoes.
The question of dying becomes a wise reminder. It cures us of our innocence of the future.
One of my earliest memories as a reader - I don't know how old I was, quite young - was a poem of his, called "Fog," and I remember the first verse, "The fog comes / on little cat feet".