I began to draw an invisible boundary between myself and other people. No matter who I was dealing with. I maintained a set distance, carefully monitoring the person’s attitude so that they wouldn’t get any closer. I didn’t easily swallow what other people told me. My only passions were books and music

This place is too calm, too natural--too complete. I don't deserve it. At least not yet.

We're all kind of weird and twisted and drowning.

In real life things don’t go so smoothly. At certain points in our lives, when we really need a clear-cut solution, the person who knocks at our door is, more likely than not, a messenger bearing bad news.

When I start to write, I don't have any plan at all. I just wait for the story to come.

Time flows in strange ways on Sundays, and sights become mysteriously distorted.

Sheep hurt my father, and through my father, sheep have also hurt me.