I write because I admire the act of rationalization, of seeking clarity in one's understanding of the complexities of life, and I'm bad at it. I'm slow. Writing, which is an arduous and slow process, proceeds at the same rate as my sloth-like mind.

There was much to hate in this world and too much to love.

If you're ever in doubt, throw a pepper in the air. If it fails to come down, you have gone mad, so don't trust in anything.

Perhaps family itself, like beauty, is temporary, and no discredit need attach to impermanence.

Does the devil ever struggle to be good again, or if so is he not a devil?

Her sister's shoes. They sparkeled even in the darkening afternoon. They sparkeled like yellow diamonds, and embers of blood and thorny stars.

There were people everywhere but no one was mine, and I was no one's.