I gasp, because Isn't that just exactly what I've been doing too: writing poems and scattering them to the winds with the same hope as Gram that someone, someday, somewhere might understand who I am, who my sister was, and what happened to us.

We wish with our hands, that's what we do as artists.

I didn't know love felt like this, like turning into brightness.

The guy's life drunk, I think, makes Candide look like a sourpuss. Does he even know that death exists?

At least, the sun had the decency to stay the hell away from us.

I'm layering away: sauce, noodles, I belong to you, cheese, sauce, my heart is yours, noodles, cheese, I hear your soul in your music, cheese, cheese, CHEESE.

I heard this expression once: Each time someone dies, a library burns. I'm watching it burn right to the ground.