We're here, there, not here, not there, swirling like specks of dust, claiming for ourselves the rights of the universe. Being important, being nothing, being caught in lives of our own making that we never wanted. Breaking out, trying again, wondering why the past comes with us, wondering how to talk about the past at all.

I have a list of titles that I leave at the [library] desk, because they are bound to be written some day, and it's best to be ahead of the queue.

What can i tell you about the choices we make? Fate reads like the polar opposite of decision, and so much of life reads like fate.

I find pieces of myself everywhere, and I cut myself handling them.

...there are two kinds of writing: the one you write and the one that writes you.

What to say? That the end of love is a haunting. A haunting of dreams. A haunting of silence. Haunted by ghosts it is easy to become a ghost. Life ebbs. The pulse is too faint. Nothing stirs you. Some people approve of this and call it healing. It is not healing. A dead body feels no pain.

Writing has to have a great deal of certainty and self-assurance, but it's not arrogant.