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

Maybe the star doesnt even exist any more.Yet sometimes that light seems more real to me than anything.

Fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn't something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn't get in, and walk through it, step by step.

I dream. Sometimes I think that's the only right thing to do.

The unwaking world was as hushed as a deep forest.

Whenever she felt like crying, she would instead become angry—at someone else or at herself—which meant that it was rare for her to shed tears.

To be able to grasp something of value, sometimes you have to perform seemingly inefficient acts.