I think living in Israel and wanting to change reality is the best prescription for never-ending writer's block.

It's kind of a reflex for me to ignore my own wishes and think about other people first.

For three months, a person sits and looks at you, imagining a kiss.

His whole body was completely still, except the wings, which were still fluttering a little, like when someone dies. That's when he finally understood that of all the things the angel had told him, nothing was true. That he wasn't even an angel, just a liar with wings.

Maybe in the general scheme of things he couldn't find any meaning in life, but on a smaller scale it was okay. Not always, but a lot of the time.

Life is one heck of an invention. It is better than the iPhone 4S and Coke Zero combined.

There are two kinds of people, those who like to sleep next to the wall, and those who like to sleep next to the people who push them off the bed.