I love the process of being alone in a room.

I think of how and why and what happened and the thoughts come easily, but the answers don't.

That's what ever great writer, I believe, has done over the course of time - is they've figured out new ways of telling the same stories.

I want a drink. I want fifty drinks. I want a bottle of the purest, strongest, most destructive, most poisonous alcohol on Earth. I want fifty bottles of it. I want crack, dirty and yellow and filled with formaldehyde. I want a pile of powder meth, five hundred hits of acid, a garbage bag full of mushrooms, a tube of glue bigger than a truck, a pool of gas large enough to drown in. I want something anything whatever however as much as I can.

Faith is the fool's excuse.

The one word love means too little for what it is. It doesn't communicate even a fraction of the feelings involved. Love. The word is not enough for what it is. Love. Love.

I've been alone my whole life, I can't do it anymore.