Who are you? the band sang. I tried to remember but I really couldn't say.

Inside every human being, there is unlimited time and space.

In a train...smash. In his arm her last...breath.' He had loved her. But he hated himself more. Such suffering, so much pain. And he thought it made him hateful. As if suffering was shameful, disgusting, as if pain were a crime. Who can judge another man's suffering?

As an artist, you can never get what you want. What you do never approaches what you want it to be.

Never apologize. Never explain.

I imagined my soul taking in these words like silicated water in the Petrified Forest, turning my wood to patterned agate. I liked it when my mother shaped me this way. I thought clay must feel happy in the good potter's hand.

Life should always be like this. ... Like lingering over a good meal.