The ones with no imagination are always the quickest to justify themselves.

Problem is, once I sit at my desk and put all these down on paper. I realize something vital is missing. It doesn't crystallize - no crystals, just pebbles. And I'm not transported anywhere.

Memories warm you up from the inside. But they also tear you apart.

I didn't feel like I was in my own body; my body was just a lonely, temporary container I happened to be borrowing.

It is my huge pleasure that my novels are translated into languages that are read among small numbers of people.

The journey I'm taking is inside me. Just like blood travels down veins, what I'm seeing is my inner self and what seems threatening is just the echo of the fear in my heart.

I move, therefore I am.