Dawn tinted the darkness like water ink.

Love's an illusion. It's a dream you wake up from with an enormous hangover and net credit debt. I'd rather have cash.

The story of her life. God gave you everything just to take it away. Just so you knew exactly what you were missing.

I thought of my mother as Queen Christina, cool and sad, eyes trained on some distant horizon. That was where she belonged, in furs and palaces of rare treasures, fireplaces large enough to roast a reindeer, ships of Swedish maple.

Love could never bloom in a concrete block room.

echo, the death of a sound that had nowhere to go but to come back.

Don't hoard the past. Don't cherish anything. Burn it. The artist is the phoenix who burns to emerge.