Traveling isn't something you're good at. It's something you do. Like breathing.

It takes certain kind of naiveté, or perhaps just stupidity, to know things will end and still hope otherwise.

Travelling's not something you're good at. It's something you do. Like breathing. You can't work too much at it, or it feels like work. You have to surrender yourself to the chaos. To the accidents.

There were signs. Probably more of them than I ever caught, even after the fact. But I missed them all. Maybe because I wasn’t looking for them. I was too busy checking over my shoulder at the fire I’d just come through to pay much attention to the thousand-foot cliff looming in front of me.

All relationships are tough. Just like with music, sometimes you have harmony and other times you have cacophony.

Sleep would be so welcome. A warm blanket of black to erase everything else. Sleep without dreams.

Neither sleet nor rain nor a half inch of snow will compel me to dress like a lumberjack.