It was as if I were writing letters to hold together the pieces of my crumbling life.

Time really is one big continuous cloth, no? We habitually cut out pieces of time to fit us, so we tend to fool ourselves into thinking that time is our size, but it really goes on and on.

As long as I was alive, I was something. That was just how it was. But somewhere along the way it all changed. Living turned me into nothing.

I don't think of myself as an artist. I'm just a guy who can write.

When I wake up, my pillow’s cold and damp with tears. But tears for what? I have no idea.

What we seek is some kind of compensation for what we put up with.

The pure present is an ungraspable advance of the past devouring the future. In truth, all sensation is already memory.