Gazing at the rain, I consider what it means to belong, to become part of something. To have someone cry for me.

Everything was too sharp and clear, so that I could never tell where to start- the way a map that shows too much can sometimes be useless.

I couldn't tell wether the hole that opened up inside me was from missing you or from the change of season

You throw a stone into a deep pond. Splash. The sound is big, and it reverberates throughout the surrounding area. What comes out of the pond after that? All we can do is stare at the pond, holding our breath.

It's like the Tibetan Wheel of the Passions. As the wheel turns, the values and feelings on the outer rim rise and fall, shining or sinking into darkness. But true love stays fastened to the axle and doesn't move.

A short story I have written long ago would barge into my house in the middle of the night, shake me awake and shout, 'Hey,this is no time for sleeping! You can't forget me, there's still more to write!' Impelled by that voice, I would find myself writing a novel. In this sense, too, my short stories and novels connect inside me in a very natural, organic way.

Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.