Most of the time, it's not the concept, but the execution of craft that counts.

There are never words for the strongest of our feelings. There is just the pain that we cannot share. Pain we must all feel alone.

She feels and she cries. It is to be admired.

I close my eyes and I take a deep breath and I think about my life and how I ended up this way. I think about the ruin, devastation and wreckage I have caused to myself and to others. I think about self-hatred and self-loathing. I think about how and why and what happened and the thoughts come easily, but the answers don't.

I, however, like black. It is a color that makes me comfortable and the color with which I have the most experience. In the darkest darkness, all is black. In the deepest hole, all is black. In the terror of my Addicted mind, all is black. In the empty periods of my lost memory, all is black. I like black, goddammit, and I am going to give it its due.

I'm writing books. They're still a mix of fact and fiction and will continue to be. I think it's an interesting place to work.

I think men who can cry are strong men