Life doesn't have plots and subplots and denouements. It's just a big collection of loose ends and dangling threads that never get explained.

Why am I in Hell? It hurts. It hurts all the time. Why am I in Hell? I just want to go home and lie on the bed the way I used to. Please take me home.

I have to confess I'm not a huge comics fan in the wider sense of comics as an art form.

Abandon the 'I', because it's a lie.

Your head's like mine, like all our heads; big enough to contain every god and devil there ever was. Big enough to hold the weight of oceans and the turning stars. Whole universes fit in there! But what do we choose to keep in this miraculous cabinet? Little broken things, sad trinkets that we play with over and over. The world turns our key and we play the same little tune again and again and we think that tune's all we are.

We love our superheroes because they refuse to give up on us. We can analyze them out of existence, kill them, ban them, mock them, and still they return, patiently reminding us of who we are and what we wish we could be.

Talking to oneself, I have often thought, is the best way to be sure of intelligent and witty conversation.