Part fact part fiction is what life is. And it is always a cover story. I wrote my way out.

I had huge ambition for literature. I don't see the point of doing anything if you don't have ambition for it.

One thing I am certain of, I do not want to be betrayed, but thats quite hard to say casually, at the beginning of a relationship. It’s not a word people use very often, which confuses me, because there are different kinds of infidelity, but betrayal is betrayal wherever you find it. By betrayal, I mean promising to be on your side, and then being on somebody else’s.

In the heat of her hands I thought, This is the campfire that mocks the sun.

Art saved me; it got me through my depression and self-loathing, back to a place of innocence.

We shall all die, and our lives will be irrelevant then.

I didn't know what hate felt like, not the hate that comes after love. It's huge and desperate and it longs to be proved wrong. And every day it's proved right it grows a little more monstrous. If the love was passion, the hate will be obsession. A need to see the once-loved weak and cowed beneath pity. Disgust is close and dignity is far away. The hate is not only for the once loved, it's for yourself too; how could you ever have loved this?