How many people ask you to come share their life?
her scruffy innoscense to impregnate with his dreams. reason was seductive, it gave the appearance of truth
A novel is like a dream in which everyone is you. They’re all parts of yourself.
That was the thing about words, they were clear and specific-chair, eye, stone- but when you talked about feelings, words were too stiff, they were this and not that, they couldn't include all the meanings. In defining, they always left something out.
My hatred gives me strength.
What can I say about life? Do I praise it for letting you live, or damn it for allowing the rest?