I adapt to things quickly, including good things, which I wish I could shut off sometimes. My friends have to keep reminding me how crazy my life has become, and then it hits me fresh and I just slap my forehead and think, "Wait, what... ?"

I am Dead, but it's not so bad. I've learned to live with it.

I don't want to hear music, I don't want the sunrise to be pink. The world is a liar. Its ugliness is overwhelming; the scraps of beauty make it worse.

Writing isn't letters on paper. It's communication. It's memory.

I wish people were willing to dig a little deeper than the surface elements of a premise before tossing one story in with another.

She is Living and I'm Dead, but I'd like to believe we're both human. Call me an idealist.

... we shoved out many hopes and fears into their hands, believing those hands were strong because they had firm handshakes. They failed us, always. There was no way they could not fail us - they were human, and so were we.