Forgive me for stating the obvious, but the world is made up of all kinds of people.

One foot in front of the other. Repeat as often as necessary to finish.

A deserted library in the morning - there's something about it that really gets to me. All possible words and ideas are there, resting peacefully.

Writers have to keep on writing if they want to mature, like caterpillars endlessly chewing on leaves.

Silence, I discover, is something you can actually hear.

I probably still haven’t completely adapted to the world. I don’t know, I feel like this isn’t the real world. The people, the scene: they just don’t seem real to me.

When it's all over, it'll seem like a dream.