I saw doves and I thought they were rocks, but they were asleep. My breath made them stir, and they rocks took flight, the earth exploding... and my only thought was that I wanted you to see them, too.

How can we be alive and not wonder about the stories we knit together this place we call the world? Without stories our universe is merely rocks and clouds and lava and blackness. It's a village scraped raw by warm waters leaving not a trace of what existed before.

I build my life so that I don't wake up for anything. Ever. If you make me get up early to do something with you, I will hate you and resent you and figure out a way of never having to work with you ever again.

There's nothing cute or funny or lovable about being cheap. It's a total turn-off.

What is human behavior, except trying to prove that we're not animals?

I think writing would have happened to me anyway, somehow. Differently, but it still would have happened.

Nobody cares about worthiness. People care about what is real inside of you.