Why do people have to be this lonely? What's the point of it all? Millions of people in this world, all of them yearning, looking to others to satisfy them, yet isolating themselves. Why? Was the earth put here just to nourish human loneliness?

Some things, you know, if you say them, it makes them not true?

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

Possibilities are like cancer. The more I think about them, the more they multiply, and there's no way to stop them. I'm out of control.

A person's last moments are an important thing. You can't choose how you're born but you can choose how you die.

What you see with your eyes is not necessarily real.

Now for a good twelve-hour sleep, I told myself. Twelve solid hours. Let birds sing, let people go to work. Somewhere out there, a volcano might blow, Israeli commandos might decimate a Palestinian village. I couldn't stop it. I was going to sleep.