Asthmatic immigrant learns to breathe by writing.

I read real books. On paper. You know, those printed books? I feel like this is the last thing I do to support my industry. I think they smell great, too.

I just want fiction to remain a vital force for entertainment and not just for contemplation. Both things can exist.

I am born hungry. Ravenous. I want to eat the world, and I can never be satiated.

People always write on my Facebook that they've seen somebody they thought was me on the subway, and I was cursing badly.

Remember this... develop a sense of nostalgia for something, or you'll never figure out what's important.

In contravention of my belief that any life ending in death is essentially pointless, I needed my friends to open up that plastic bag and take one last look at me. Someone had to remember me, if only for a few more minutes in the vast silent waiting room of time.