Stop. Breathe those useless breaths. Drop this piece of life you’re holding to your lips. Where are you? How long have you been here? Stop now. You have to stop. Squeeze shut your stinging eyes, and take another bite.

The kind of stuff I usually read is a bit more on the literary side, like books that I think are influential in the sense that they're doing pulpy subject matter in a refined way. Like 'The Road' by Cormac McCarthy, I loved that book.

I can no longer believe in any voodoo spell or laboratory virus. This is something deeper, darker. This comes from the cosmos, from the stars, or the unknown blackness behind them. The shadows in God's boarded-up basement.

There is no ideal world for you to wait around for. The world is always just what it is now, and it's up to you how you respond to it.

It’s sad to see them staring wistfully through the window when the door isn’t locked.

The shadows of the room pool in the lines of our faces, draining our eyes of hue. "There's nothing left worth saying.

I want to change my punctuation. I long for exclamation marks, but I'm drowning in ellipses.