Sometimes I feel so- I don’t know - lonely. The kind of helpless feeling when everything you’re used to has been ripped away. Like there’s no more gravity, and I’m left to drift in outer space with no idea where I’m going’ Like a little lost Sputnik?’ I guess so.

That's the kind of death that frightens me. The shadow of death slowly, slowly eats away at the region of life, and before you know it everything's dark and you can't see, and the people around you think of you as more dead than alive.

Does G get angry because it follows F in the alphabet? Does page 68 in a book start a revolution because it follows 67?

Reaching the finish line, never walking, and enjoying the race. These three, in this order, are my goals.

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

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

How many Sundays - how many hundreds of Sundays like this - lay ahead of me? “Quiet, peaceful, and lonely,” I said aloud to myself. On Sundays, I didn't wind my spring.