I think we crushed ourselves down over the centuries. Buried ourselves under greed and hate and whatever other sins we could find until our souls finally hit the rock bottom of the universe. And then they scraped a hole through it, into some ... darker place.

Are my words ever actually audible, or do they just echo in my head while people stare at me, waiting?

Peel off these dusty wool blankets of apathy and antipathy and cynical desiccation. I want life in all its stupid sticky rawness.

My favorite songs change every year.

It’s not about keeping up the population, it’s about passing on who we are and what we've learned, so things keep going. So we don’t just end.

I've always been interested in writing from the perspective of an outsider.

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