As we go through life we gradually discover who we are, but the more we discover, the more we lose ourselves.

I go by the gut. I might not appear to have any talent but I've got plenty of gut instinct.

Perhaps I'm just too painstaking a type of person, but I can't grasp much of anything without putting down my thoughts in writing.

A certain type of perfection can only be realized through a limitless accumulation of the imperfect.

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.

Life is like a box of cookies.

Distance might not solve anything, no matter how far you run.